Belladonna Lilies
by DezoPenguin
Summary: In a gaslamp-fantasy Victorian era shaped by the discovery of Dust, two women's lives take on a collision course. Blake Belladonna, searching for her future, and Weiss Schnee, learning the meaning of her past, may find that each other holds the key to finding what truth exists within their web of duty, honor, and pride. Updates bi-weekly.
1. Prologue

_A/N: As noted in the summary, this story is set in a steampunk (Dust-punk, maybe?) alternate universe. Chapter 1 will be posted next week (have to get to Weiss and Blake!), with subsequent chapters every two weeks thereafter. Although the story is set in Victorian England, I have not been particularly scrupulous in my use of language, favoring casual comprehension for the modern audience over fidelity to the period (...that last sentence being, in fact, a perfect example of the kind I've avoided!). Well, that and the fact that a lot of the _RWBY_ characters just don't sound right in Victorianesque language._

_For the curious, in the language of flowers the belladonna lily, more commonly called the amaryllis, represents pride._

~ _1886_ ~

The night wind off the sea was stiff and steady, rustling the sands and rattling the leaves in the trees. Richard Chase shifted, the weight of the rifle on its strap chafing over his shoulder. Sweat trickled down his face and into the open V of his shirt front.

"Chase."

He glanced back towards the entrance to the old stone-walled fort. Though it wasn't a military outpost these days, he found it easier to think of it that way.

He supposed it helped him sleep at night.

"Evening, Doctor. Come out for a smoke?"

"Yes, yes. A...smoke."

From behind them, from one of the high towers so that the sound carried, there was a shrill scream. It started out as the pain-wracked cry of a man, but as it rose and soared the humanity seemed to be torn from it, leaving only the terrified bellows of some wild beast.

Dr. Pendrick fished beneath his white coat for his cigarette case with shaking fingers. The young man's fresh, clean-shaven face was drawn and pasty.

"God! How can they stand it?"

Chase assumed that Pendrick was some kind of genius, plucked from the ranks of medical school on the strength of a breakthrough research paper or something like it. It surprised him to think it, because to his mind geniuses were fellows like the bosses. Whatever Pendrick's medical passion was, it certainly wasn't all-consuming in the way Chase was used to seeing it. When men dreamed big, that dream had a habit of taking root, growing and growing until it ate their soul from the inside. He'd seen it before: Ireland, India, the Sudan.

Back in the fort it wasn't politics or religion that they dreamed, but esoteric dreams, strange ones. Maybe that was what being a genius meant. Most men just dreamed of money, power, freedom, or serving God. Geniuses dreamed of becoming gods themselves.

That wasn't the part that scared him, though.

What scared him was that they were succeeding.

Another howling scream lit the night and was dissolved into the wail of the rising wind.

Pendrick managed to extract a cigarette from his silver case and strike a wax vesta. The tiny flame was snuffed almost at once by the wind.

"Let me," Chase offered, and took a brass Dust lighter from his hip pocket. Pendrick's eyebrows rose at the sight.

"That's the kind that they give out to commemorate special acts of valor, isn't it?"

The snowflake emblem on the side kind of gave it away, Chase supposed, handing it over. Maybe that was how they thought of it. It was a good lighter, so he carried it with him, and then every time he pulled it out, it was a reminder of what he'd done—and to whom he'd belonged when he'd done it. Better than a military medal, at that, which a man would just toss in a drawer and forget if he didn't have occasion to wear it.

Pendrick spun the wheel, causing a flame to spring up. The old-style lighters, invented over fifty years ago, could be untrustworthy, due to their use of hydrogen fuel. But with the discovery of Dust, like the crimson crystal in the lighter's heart, all that changed. It was fuel and fire all at once. Supreme power, power to remake the world. The silver snowflake inlaid in the lighter's brass face glittered as a testament to that.

"I was in the Sudan," Chase said quietly, "during the uprising."

Pendrick shivered.

"I've only heard stories—what was in the newspapers—but from what they say, if the fanatical regime had taken hold, it could have stood for twenty years."

Chase wasn't sure if that would have been a bad thing, considering what they'd done to prevent it. It had clung with him for weeks, the screech of metal, the smell of lubricating oil, the noise flesh and bone make when they meet the cold, relentless power of steel and iron.

Those memories didn't cling to him any more, though. Not since he'd come to the island.

He had new memories to replace them, now.

"I was with the advance force at Khartoum," he said, "the group that pulled General Gordon out before the Landsknechts advanced. That's why they gave me that thing." He pointed at the lighter. "And then, because I could be _trusted_," he added with a mocking laugh, "they sent me here."

Another scream tore through the night. Pendrick shuddered.

"Good God! That's infamous!"

"You'll find that most of us here have similar stories," Chase said, shrugging. "Loyalty's important."

_And the best kind of loyalty is the kind you can't buy with money. The kind that you get when you own a man's soul._

He wondered how Dr. Pendrick had sold his soul. Maybe for him it was just money, probably for a family somewhere that needed it—parents, siblings, even a wife or child of his own, if it came to that. That would explain how it was that he could still care.

"But that...It's hideous, I tell you. Bad enough that we have to be here, we doctors, scientists. The work...I can understand how the work has value. I...I can see that." It was exactly the same tone of voice Chase remembered a freshly commissioned lieutenant using before ordering their squad to assault a caravan in the jungles, once. "But you men...it shouldn't be heroes who have to face this!"

"You'd better not let Montgomery hear you talking like that," Chase said with a laugh, sharp and barking. "And don't mistake a little luck in battle for heroism. If we were really heroes..." He turned and looked back at the fort. "Well, if we were really heroes, we'd be doing something other than standing here on guard, wouldn't we?"

Wordlessly, Pendrick handed him back the lighter, and he stuck it back in his pocket.

"Storm's coming," Chase said, looking up at the sky.

The doctor nodded, taking a drag on his cigarette.

Even when the first fat droplets began to fall, though, neither man made any move to retreat to the shelter of the fort.

~X X X~

It was over two hours later when the screaming finally ceased. In the fort's tower, the younger of the two medical men who flanked the operating table straightened and set aside his instruments to be cleaned and sterilized. He would not have thought it ironic that he, with the work he was doing, was adhering scrupulously to practices for patient safety that many hospitals still rejected as newfangled nonsense. He would have merely noted that scientific breakthroughs had to be respected, and that it would be the height of folly to allow his own work to be corrupted by something he could take simple steps to prevent.

"There. I think that finishes things for the night."

He looked across at the older man. Even hidden by his surgical mask, his partner and associate's face showed the ruddy pink of good living, of indulgent society. A genial smile, a pleasant manner, these were all part of the stock-in-trade. But with that smile covered, the coldness in his eyes gave him away, made plain that here was a man as dedicated to esoteric science as he himself was.

Thunder rumbled loudly outside the window. He hadn't even noticed when the storm started, so immersed had he been in the work. He turned to the door, where Montgomery stood with the young Dr. Pendrick, waiting.

"Take the subject to the recovery room and make certain that the incisions are all dressed and treated." He'd done all of the suturing work himself, of course; he wouldn't trust anyone else with that job, but the post-operative care he was happy to hand off to another medical practitioner. Pendrick was most definitely not dedicated to the work, to the advancement of science, but his intellect and nervous disposition made him perfectly suited to handle his present task without difficulty.

"Yes, sir."

He and Montgomery advanced. The big man with the scar-creased, bald head looked intimidating and indeed _was_ intimidating, but the doctors found him to be the perfect servant for the project, combining an absolute personal loyalty with the creativity and intelligence to carry out his instructions in the best possible fashion under whatever circumstances happened. Pendrick moved to help him at the other end of the gurney, but Montgomery popped loose the foot-brake and easily rolled the table forward without the need for assistance, his enormous strength seeming to overcome the subject's weight without hesitation. Pendrick scurried along after, closing the lift gates and operating the switch that made the table descend into the depths of the fort.

"That one is going to be trouble one of these days," his colleague said. "He's too soft-hearted. He doesn't believe in the work."

"He will, Henry. He will."

"And if he doesn't, Emile?"

"He will. One way or the other."

~X X X~

The cage doors rattled as they opened onto the level of the fort reserved for experimental storage. The gurney wheels rattled over the stone-flagged floor as Montgomery effortlessly steered it along. The noises echoed through the halls, and down from the depths arose a response, wailing and hissing, screeching and howling, each individual throat giving voice to something different from all the rest in a kind of hellish orchestra.

A shudder ran through Pendrick at the sound, and he glanced over at Montgomery. The man showed no reaction at all to the clamor; his face was as impassive as a statue's.

_How can he bear it?_ Pendrick thought. Chase, and very likely the other guards and staff, were men hardened to human suffering from their experiences in battle, yet they still displayed awareness of what was happening here. The senior doctors had their scientific dedication to drive them, their complete understanding of and devotion to their end goals allowing them to purge all other emotions from their hearts.

Montgomery, though, confused him. The scarred man was no scientist, no intellectual, and yet he was as utterly cold as his masters. Pendrick wondered if this was the way the zealots and fanatics of the Inquisition had been, their pure faith driving them even though they could not truly understand the minutiae of doctrine that gave them their orders in the first place.

They wheeled the gurney into the infirmary room, which was nearest to the elevator. Pendrick pulled back the coarse white sheet covering his new patient, then unbuckled the strap that encircled the left wrist.

"What are you doing?"

Pendrick glared up at the big man. Medical urgency gave him the strength to stand up to his presence.

"I have to treat and dress this subject's injuries from the operation. I can't do that without actually being able to examine them properly, move arms and legs, and so on. You may take what measures you find necessary for security after this is dealt with, but I have to do my job!"

What Montgomery might have said to that was forever lost as a scream rang out, a scream of agony and suffering from not far outside the room.

"What the—"

"Come on!" Pendrick snapped. It sounded like the noises from before, that had come from the tower, but here there were no experiments, no medical treatments going on.

Montgomery's hand closed around his arm.

"Probably just one of the wretches having a nightmare."

"They've earned it, if that's the case, but we don't know what it is. What if someone is hurt? Do you want to be the one to explain how we let one of the subjects die needlessly? Because I will not be that one."

Montgomery's cold, poison-green eyes held Pendrick's for several bitter seconds that brought nervous perspiration to his brow, but the young doctor did not break and look away.

One by one the big man's fingers uncurled from Pendrick's wrist.

"As you say."

Pendrick yanked his arm back from the loosened grip, grabbed his medical bag, and rushed out the door. Another scream, this one fainter than the first, drew him on, rushing up the hall and to the nearest intersection, where he went right and stopped at the first iron-bound oaken door and peered through the barred window.

"Here! It's this one!" he called, looking back. Montgomery wasn't running, but his long-legged stride meant that even his steady, measured tread covered ground with relative speed. His big hand dropped to the ring of iron keys that was hooked to his belt. He wore them at all times, along with a .45-caliber Webley army revolver in a cross-draw rig on his left hip and a short brass rod with a rubber hand-grip in a kind of leather sheath on his right. Not hurrying, he came up alongside Pendrick and took his own look through the window.

On the far side of the cell, braced up against the wooden bench that served as a sleeping pallet, a manlike figure was hunched over. He seemed to be trembling and twitching in pain, but that could mean anything. What settled the point for Montgomery was the fresh blood, the same crimson as the subject's hair, staining the side of his white smock.

The correct key came to his fingertips effortlessly and he slipped it into the lock. It turned, grating as rusty metal ground against metal. The heavy bolt slid back from the frame, and Montgomery pulled the door open.

It was Pendrick's sense of mercy that did it. Seeing an injured patient in front of him drove everything else out of his mind. He rushed forward into the cell, fumbling with the catches of his bag.

The figure whirled on him like lightning, a massive hand seizing the doctor by the side of the head and driving his skull with terrific force against the cell's stone wall. Pendrick dropped to the straw-strewn floor, a smear of red behind on the gray.

Lightning flashed outside the tiny, barred window set high in the cell wall, thunder following right on its heels to herald that the stone was right on top of the fort. The imprisoned subject seemed limned with shadows as the brilliant light filled the cell, more beast than man. The thunder seemed to startle him; he hesitated before he leapt, and it was that hesitation that cost him.

Montgomery didn't waste a moment on shock or horror at Dr. Pendrick's death. That instant was all he needed to react to the threat, his hand whipping the baton from its sheath with a practiced movement. The rod was tipped with two blunt gold spikes; he thrust it at the hurtling figure's face and at the moment of contact there was a sharp crackling sound, its own little bolt of lightning as the power of the phial of verdant Dust in its core discharged. The attacker dropped, clutching his eyes. The grunt of pain was very different than the obviously feigned scream from before.

"You actually cut yourself to make it look good," Montgomery said, slamming his hobnailed boot into the bloodstained spot on the smock. It drew another short, sharp cry of pain. "Not just a little scratch, either, by the look of it. I'll remember that trick, for when someone tries it again."

His boot slammed down again, hard, and this time the cry was more of a pained yelp. _Good_, he thought. _Bastards need to remember what they are._

"Don't worry, though. I won't kill you. No, you've got your part to play in the greater development of science. The doctors are going to want to know what makes you rebellious—murderous! That kind of," he chuckled, "bullheaded stubbornness is unusual. Maybe vivisection of your brain can provide some answers for them. But you'll need to be alive and reasonably well so they can tell the defects from the injuries."

He spun the electrical baton in his hand and leaned down—and then a searing pain stabbed through his back. He straightened up, but his movements felt sluggishly hazy. They'd hit something important, he knew, but...who?

_The infirmary!_ he realized. Pendrick had unstrapped the subject's wrist. The rest of the straps had been left in place, but a free arm meant that didn't insure anything.

He managed to turn around, to raise the baton in his own defense, but in the next moment, far too fast for his injury-dulled reflexes to react, his throat was torn out.

~X X X~

The rain hammered into the ground, hissed off the leaves of the swaying trees. The fury of the story was like the wrath of hell, crying out to claim those within the fort.

Chase huddled within the frame of the gate he was on guard to protect. He couldn't go inside, worse the luck, which meant he was going to be soaked by the end of the night, but that didn't entirely make him unhappy. Being inside that place—

The explosion tore through his sullen thoughts. He might have mistaken it for thunder, had he not been a veteran of too many campaigns not to know the sound of a man-made detonation. He stepped away from the wall, his rifle settling into his hands almost without conscious thought. Looking up at the fort, he saw the cause at once: the tower was on fire. Flames surged up, erupting through shattered windows like great gouts of dragon's breath defying the storm.

He ran to the gate, hammered his fist against it.

"Carmody. _Carmody!_"

It didn't open, though, not even the sliding metal plate covering the window slot. Nor was there any answer from the indoor man.

Then the noise started.

It was as if the world had gone mad, a nightmare cacophony. It wasn't just the screams, like the ones that had echoed earlier from the tower only soaring from many different throats. It was the yowls of rage, the bestial fury, the crackle of flames, the percussive beat of gunfire, and all of it merged with the devil's harmony of furious thunder and screaming wind.

Somehow, beyond the stone and steel barriers, the fort had dissolved into a war. Oh, he knew the signs well enough. And yet something told him that if those doors opened he would be facing something far more horrific even than a year ago in Khartoum, its only mercy being the smaller scale.

Chase pounded on the gate again. Even as he did so, the back of his mind was screaming at him that he was crazy, that the last thing he needed to be trying was to get _in there_ with...whatever. But there was a practical side to it as well, because those gates would be no barrier to anything trying to get out. They were barred and locked on the _inside_.

Whatever was being unleashed in there could get out whenever it wanted.

That meant the only hope was to contain it by force. To block the routes of exit. Chase couldn't do that alone. The other guards on outdoor posts were probably in the same position or trying to take shelter from the storm. He needed to get in, keep a line of retreat open, and join up with as many people as he could.

If there was anyone to join up _with_.

There was a sudden, scraping noise from inside, the sound of the bolts being drawn back. Chase stepped back from the gate, brought his rifle up and braced it against his shoulder, ready to fire. There came the dull thud of the bar being dropped to the stone floor, then the gate was flung open and a wild-eyed man rushed out.

"Stop right there!" Chase barked, but the man ignored him, charging straight on without heed for the threat of the rifle. Chase could have fired, but he saw the man's hands were empty, so at the last second he shifted his grip and used the gun like a staff to deliver a cross-body blow, deflecting the charge and slamming the man down to the grass and mud. In the light from beyond the open gate he recognized the face. "Davies!" he barked. "Calm yourself, man!"

John Davies was a man Chase knew well; he was the captain of the steam yacht that serviced the island. He heaved upwards with all his strength; years of steady drinking had left him fleshy and pot-bellied, and that bulk slammed upwards with manic force, driving Chase stumbling back even as Davies got to his feet.

"Dammit, man, what's happening?"

"We've got to get out of here!" Davies screamed. His face was pasty with terror, making the broken veins in his nose stand out all the more.

"What's _happened_? Where is everyone? Montgomery? The doctors?"

"There's no _time_. We've got to get _away_! You have to help me; I can't run the yacht by myself!"

"Davies, get hold of yourself and—"

"_You don't understand_!" he screamed, his cry the wail of a despairing child. He seized Chase by the shirt front and shouted in his face. "They're loose. _All of them are loose_!"

The chill that flowed into Chase had nothing to do with the rain and wind.

"Oh, my God," he whispered.

The sounds of gunfire from within the fort had stilled. Flames were swelling up, surrounding the tower like a fiery beacon in the night, almost supernatural in the way they defied the storm.

He thought again of Pendrick, the way he'd praised Chase as a hero for his past, not understanding what that past really meant. He'd seen the assignment to this place as an injustice, ill treatment of one deserving better. Chase had viewed it as expediency, the cold will of his masters using him like the tool they'd reduced him to being.

They'd both been wrong. It wasn't injustice. It wasn't exploitation.

Shadows moved in the passage beyond the gate.

This was a reckoning.


	2. Chapter One

_~ 1889 ~_

The Schnee manor looked like a fairy-tale castle in the London night, lit up with electric brilliance that banished even the fog. A row of carriages, each more fanciful than the last, crested doors on most, flowed down the curving walk, each pausing only to disgorge its cargo of brilliantly gowned and begemmed women and elegantly dressed men wearing rigorously black and white evening-wear as if part of the setting for the jewel tones of their escorts' dresses.

This was more than just a ball, more than just a celebration. Anyone who was anyone in Polite Society was there, from royalty to _nouveau riche,_ diplomats and industrialists, artists and aristocrats. More than one had returned from abroad with the express purpose of attending the gala, regardless of the inconvenience they might have suffered. And if one _wasn't_ present, then the publication of that fact in the society pages of the next day's papers would cement their fall for the public's eye.

At that moment, though, the guests were being watched by a different set of eyes, ones that saw them not as individuals but as camouflage. They were the eyes of a hunting beast; they were fixed on their prey, and everything else was reduced to mere environmental factors: measured, assessed, and calculated as to how they would help or harm the predator's efforts.

The Schnee manor was going to have an uninvited guest that night.

~X X X~

"Now remember, the Duke of Penhurst has precedence over the Duke of Marlington. If you reverse them, it will suggest that your father has decided to align himself with Marlington's project and—"

"I _know_ that, Gertrud; stop _fussing_," Weiss Schnee said testily. The governess jerked her head back, affronted, the ringlets around her plump face bouncing with the movement.

"It is extremely important that you remember these things! As the heiress to the Schnee Dust Company, your every action, every inaction, will be watched closely. The least indication from you will drive politics and investment markets."

"And that," Weiss said crisply, but with more than a little trace of self-satisfaction, "is exactly as it should be." She looked directly into the older woman's eyes. "I am quite aware of the ramifications that surround our guests and their positions. Believe me that _nothing_ will occur tonight that is not exactly as I intend."

Anyone who'd had the education Weiss Schnee had received should really have known better than to invoke a literary convention like that.

~X X X~

The beast's lips curved in a smirk as it crossed the neatly manicured grounds. The Schnee family took its security seriously; ordinarily a number of dogs were set to patrolling the lawn against thieves and other intruders—but not tonight, not with the cream of Society in attendance.

_They could hardly risk a mastiff sinking its fangs into the Prince of Wales's leg._

The human security would be impaired as well. On ordinary days, servants had defined roles, parts to play, and anything out of place would be quickly noticed. Windows would be locked and doors barred not just because it was a good idea to do so, but out of force of habit. Where concentration might slip, routine might cover for it.

But not this night.

Tonight's extravagant gala meant that everything would be at sixes and sevens. The staff would be taxed to its utmost. What was more, there would certainly have been temporary staff added to serve the needs of the guests, new faces among the old. Beyond them, of course, were the guests themselves, hundreds who ran in the same circles but even so could not be counted upon to know _everyone_.

There was anonymity in a crowd that could not be found on the loneliest moor.

The bright lights, the enthusiastic revels, the crush of humanity, they all gave the impression of security and safety.

The beast knew that prey was never more vulnerable than when it thought itself safe.

~X X X~

The ballroom of the Schnee manor looked like it was taken from some Viennese palace or Alpine _schloss_. The floor gleamed with light from elaborate chandeliers and wall-sconces, and the entire back wall was made of floor-to-ceiling windows pointed with Gothic arches; in the reflected light they seemed to make one great mirror redoubling the already huge room's size. Balcony landings swept around the outer walls to reach a great sweeping curve of a staircase that descended to the floor.

Weiss emerged from a door out onto that balcony. A servant was standing just inside, his livery calling forth suggestions of medieval glory. He made a signal, subtle but obviously observed, and the musicians fell silent. Into the hush, the voice of the herald who had been introducing each new arrival as they emerged from the receiving line where Weiss's great-aunt presided sounded twice as loud.

"Miss Weiss Schnee!"

All eyes were upon her as she descended the staircase, one hand lightly gliding along the curving rail. Weiss was fully aware of the image she made and played the moment to the utmost. She knew that her appearance was striking: skin as pale as alabaster combined with pure white hair to suggest at a glance that she might be an albino, but that wasn't the case; her hair simply happened to be that color. But the hue, the imagery fit the "snow" that was her family's name, and it was a motif that she played up. Her elaborate gown called to mind a fairy-tale princess, and was the pale blue of hoar-frost, matching her eyes. Her jewelry was minimal, a single slim necklace in white gold and her ubiquitous hair-comb shaped like the radiating arms of a snowflake. Anything more would have challenged the effect, and Weiss very much wanted everything to be perfect.

She came to a stop at a kind of landing that was about a third of the way down the staircase and looked out at the assembled guests who peopled the dance floor. Their eyes were all on her, and behind those eyes lay so many different emotions: respect, envy, desire, awe, bitterness, hate, adoration, and so much more, all of it focused on her and what she represented.

But then, hadn't it always been that way? This was what Weiss had been born to, and the scrutiny that came with it was nothing new. Four people or four hundred, it was always the same.

"On behalf of the Schnee family," she said, "I thank all of you for accepting our invitation to join in celebrating my twenty-first birthday. I'm flattered to see such a response, to see so many lights of society that have taken your valuable time to come here. I only hope that you are able to take as much pleasure in our hospitality as I do in receiving your kindness."

Smiling, Weiss fell silent. The dull pat of gloved hands striking together rose up to her, first from a few places here and there—whether born of genuine emotion or the calculation of political and business allies she would never know—and then consuming the crowd, so that she descended to the ballroom floor to the sound of applause.

~X X X~

The beast clung to the shadows while approaching the manor. Darkness was an old, familiar friend for Blake Belladonna, and she found it easy to cling to. The pools of illumination from the lighted walk and streaming from the windows hampered her ability to find cover, but paradoxically made it easier to conceal herself in what dark places there were. The eyes of watchers trying to see from light into shadow found the contrast seemed even greater than it would otherwise have been. For those outside the dark, the blackness appeared absolute, impenetrable.

That was always the way of it. Those who stood safe and sure in the light couldn't imagine the many nuances, the diverse world to be found where its rays couldn't reach.

Blake gained the side of the house easily enough, boots padding lightly over the grass, leaving neither a whisper nor a footmark in their wake. Orienting herself, she slipped along the stone wall, low to the ground to pass beneath windows unseen, until she was nearer to her target.

She'd come prepared with the proper equipment, a hook and rope to aid her ascent, but decided they were unnecessary and might just lead to her being found out. Instead, she simply began climbing the wall, her fingertips finding the tiny crevices between blocks, hands and feet clinging to the ridges of ornamental facings. Deftly she ascended, passing by the lighted ground-floor windows until she'd reached the upper story. Here, many windows were dark, the rooms being unneeded for the festivities going on within.

Working her way upwards, she got slightly above the level of the window she wanted to reach, then worked her left foot around to the right side of the ornamental structure she was holding on to. Pain shot through her fingertips as they were forced to bear her weight, but only for a moment. Knowing she'd fall with any further delay, she kicked off against the stone, flinging her body sideways towards the window. Blake felt the rush of air against her face and her heart lurched—if her leap was even slightly off-line she could find herself falling through space, too far from the wall.

It was a close thing. Her toe came down on the edge of the stone sill, too far back for her to keep her balance. In desperation, her hand shot out, grabbing on to the framework and pulling desperately. Blake swung forward, her weight shifting, and got her second foot down. Relatively secure on the narrow ledge, she let out a sigh of relief. She may have had catlike agility, but the thought of plummeting twenty feet to a flagstone terrace wasn't a comfortable one.

Blake fumbled at the window, trying to get it open. It was, she realized, locked on the inside, but there were ways around that. From a pouch on her hip, she took a diamond-tipped cutter and sliced a line through the glass, taking it around the inside of one of the lower panes, gently applying pressure with her foot so that it tipped outwards, not in. She caught the upper edge of the pane, hooking her thumb over the top while careful not to cut herself on the sharp edge. Gently, she handed in the pane through the gap so that it would not fall and break, then slipped in herself, careful to avoid stepping on the glass. Even in the midst of music and revelry the sound of shattering glass from a strange place might catch a passing servant's ear.

The room was dim and dark, and even though Blake's night-vision was excellent the furniture was merely a collection of shadows. Still, there was enough light for her to tell that she was in a bedroom. She hadn't quite gotten the room she wanted and for a moment she worried that her information was flawed and she'd have to try to search the entire house.

_No,_ she told herself sharply. _Don't start worrying about failure before you've even begun._

Blake crossed to the door and waited, listening carefully. She heard no footsteps in the hall, no nearby voice, no hint of any other presence, so she slipped out into the hall, which was well-lit by wall sconces at regular intervals and hung with tapestries for a medieval feel that went with its arched ceiling. She proceeded to the next door, finding another bedroom. From the light of the hall she could tell that it was probably the master bedroom, with strong-looking, masculine fittings. That was encouraging, at least; she proceeded down the hall to a door that stood opposite two ornamental suits of elaborate jousting armor and found what she was looking for: a private study. The massive desk, the bookshelves, the file cabinets, all of them said that this was an area for work, not relaxation.

Blake stepped inside and shut the door behind her. She needed light, but she couldn't turn up the fixtures or light the desk lamp. That would be running too great a risk of being seen from the ground outside, a lit window where there absolutely should not have been one.

She'd prepared for that, too. From her pouch she took a small, palm-sized device, looking much the same as an over-large pocket watch. She wound the key, and the soft whirr of clockworks teased her ears. Less than five seconds later, a beam of good, strong light shone forth.

Blake smiled wryly as she recognized the irony. The radiant was a considerable improvement over the common bullseye lantern: it provided stronger illumination, it was considerably less bulky, it weighed less, it could be held at any angle without fear of extinguishing it or spilling fuel, and it could burn for vastly longer without having to refuel if need be. It accomplished this by its method of function: the radiant contained a crimson Dust crystal, and the power of heat that was coaxed out of it in turn was used to heat a carbon filament until it glowed. Dust, the substance that had elevated the Schnee family to the status of near-royalty and their company to an empire of its own...and which Blake was using to burgle their home.

Petty as it was, the thought still gave her a bit of satisfaction as she set to work.

~X X X~

Weiss curtsied politely as the music paused and her partner released her hand at the conclusion of the set. The handsome young man smiled, escorting her back off the ballroom floor even as ladies were checking their dance cards and couples were finding their partners for the next set. Weiss opened the fan that dangled from her wrist and briskly cooled herself.

"Perhaps you would care for a cup of punch?" offered her escort.

"Yes, Lord Laurent, I think that would be an excellent idea."

"Then permit me to fetch one for you."

"Tut-tut, Laurent," a voice cut in. "I think you've claimed the honors enough for one evening. A dance _and_ being Miss Schnee's gallant servant besides will cast all the rest of us into despair." The Hon. Evan Wincot grinned saucily at his rival. The two men were cut much of the same cloth, though Wincot's hair was sandy while Laurent's was dark and Wincot sported a moustache while Laurent was clean-shaven.

"You can ignore his blandishment, Miss Schnee," Laurent assured her. "While he may _look_ as frail as a wilting flower, he's made of sterner stuff. A little despair won't give him a moment's pause."

"Well, but can we be sure of that, Lord Laurent?" She let her gaze travel assessingly over Wincot. "I would hate to be known as 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci.' If nothing else, as a good Anglo-German, I should find acquiring a French nickname quite _passe_." She didn't know if either of them got the joke; Wincot was too busy looking smug and Laurent faintly petulant. "Still, Mr. Wincot, Lord Laurent does have a good point. He did offer first, after all, and a lady should not encourage a gentleman to cut in."

"Then it seems we have a quandary," Wincot suggested.

"Not at all," Weiss beamed. "I shall simply have to fetch my own punch." And while they were still gaping at her, she was three quick steps towards the refreshment table before they even realized what had happened.

_Silly boys,_ Weiss thought. Well, it was hardly unexpected. The London dandy was an entertaining enough species in small doses, but they could get tiresome very quickly. But men like Laurent and Wincot were good for something, too: Weiss could enjoy herself in their company and not have to worry about the implications of it as regarded the Schnee Dust Company, at least so long as she didn't single any one of them out for special attention. They were...restful...in that way. Like playing with a kitten.

Unfortunately, she found that her path to the refreshment table was blocked by the gathered crowd. Ordinarily, people would have made way for the instantly recognizable Weiss, but the press was just so thorough that there was little room for them to go. Not for nothing was a successful ball referred to as a "crush"! She squirmed her way through, navigating through the gaps, but came to a halt when she ended up trapped behind a tall, fresh-faced blond and the dark-haired girl in red and black he was having an animated conversation with.

"Excuse me," Weiss said.

"But that was when she said it wasn't very ladylike, and I said that Dad had always taught us that morals make the manners and not the other way around—"

"Excuse me; I'd like to get through," Weiss said, but didn't make a dent in the girl's monologue.

"—and that while it was important to behave properly it was more important to behave rightly. Then _she_ came back that even though that was true there were still other ways by which I could have helped without having to act like a hoyden. And I wanted to just crawl into a hole right then and there and die, I was so embarrassed."

"How did you get a teacher named Miss Goodwitch, anyway?" the young man wanted to know. The apparent _non sequitur_ gave Weiss's temper the nudge it needed to act more forcefully. It was one thing to ignore her while lost in conversation, but when it started getting so _pointless_...

"Excuse me, I'm _trying_ to get _through_!"

"Ah!" they both yelped as one and turned towards Weiss. Unfortunately, they were standing so close together that there wasn't enough space for them to occupy side-by-side. The man's turn was a hair slower, so his left elbow crashed into the back of the girl's right shoulder, which jostled her arm.

Including her hand, which was holding a glass of burgundy punch.

Or, more accurately, she was just holding a glass. The burgundy punch was splattered across the bodice and midriff of Weiss's gown.

"Oh! Oh no, oh goodness. I'm so sorry!" the girl exclaimed.

"Ah, no, it was my fault," her friend cut in.

"Here, let me help; maybe it's not so bad." The girl ducked around the man, snatched up several napkins off the corner of the refreshment table and started blotting at Weiss. "I'm so, so sorry..."

"Stop it!" Weiss yelped, pushing her hands away. "You're just making it worse!"

"What can I do?" the brunette all but begged.

"Nothing! This dress is ruined. Just...just get out of my way!"

Seething, she pushed past the two of them and stormed towards the nearest exit. Weiss wanted to scream, to vent her frustrated rage at the two idiots who'd turned her into a spectacle at her own party, but that would just make the embarrassment all the more complete. She needed to get out of the ballroom, get changed, and get back quickly, so that she could show that the incident was over and done with and recapture the success she'd been having up until those two decided to live out their complete lack of awareness of their surroundings.

Perhaps ironically, this time the crowd parted effortlessly to allow her to pass. Maybe they'd been staring at the encounter and pulled back from pity—or maybe they could sense the force of Weiss's barely leashed temper and didn't want to be the one to loose its chain. Regardless of the reason why, the door she picked was soon safely shut behind her.

She hadn't given any thought to _which_ door was the nearest one, but as it turned out she'd made a pretty good choice. The hall didn't lead to the card room, the conservatory, or anywhere else the guests might be expected to freely wander. Instead, she found herself in the corridor that led from the ballroom to the kitchens, one that was typically the purview of the servants. It wasn't a part of the manor she spent much time in, but she didn't blunder around or get lost in her own house, either.

_Thank God for that, at least,_ she told herself. Bad enough to risk becoming a laughingstock in front of the highest echelons of Society (and who _were_ those two, anyway? Weiss hadn't made up the guest list, but she ought to know everyone her great-aunt had included!) without blundering around like a fool in front of the servants as well. She got a few surprised looks simply from her mere presence when she passed someone, but that was only to be expected and the stain probably spoke for itself. The important part was that she went up one of the maids' back staircases, so she could cross over from the guest rooms to the wing where her own room was.

Weiss's room was chilly when she opened the door, and she shivered—her "snow princess" motif didn't extend to a liking of cold rooms while wearing a wet dress! She'd have to ring for her lady's-maid, unfortunately, since there was no way she could change on her own, and that would take more time. Weiss didn't like the idea of wearing trousers the way some daring women of the artistic set would, but she definitely envied how a man could dress himself without help, a valet more important for making sure the clothes were properly prepared than to assist a man into them. More delay!

She reached for the switch and turned it; the light blazed up from the sconces. It wouldn't do for the house of the owners of the Schnee Dust Company, drivers of the Second Industrial Revolution, to settle for the old gaslight, so the lights were powered by the electrical generating apparatus in the basement. Weiss wasn't sure that she necessarily preferred the colder, distant color of that light, but she couldn't argue about the safety.

"Ugh, it's not just the light that's cold," she muttered as a draft blew across her. "Did some idiot leave the window open?" She turned in the direction of the draft and saw that no, it was closed, but—the light looked weird, somehow. _The reflection, that's it._ The lower left pane wasn't throwing back the lamplight the way the others were. She walked over and realized that there was a good reason for that: the pane was gone. Some kind of accident, maybe, some poor bird, or one of the servants playing a game of some kind and letting a ball or the like get away. _As if I didn't have enough problems; I'll have to sleep in one of the guest rooms tonight. At least when Ellie comes I can have her get someone to clean up the broken glass, and they can call a glazier in the morning._

Except that there was no broken glass, either inside the window or clinging to the frame. When she took a closer look, she realized that the "break" didn't look like one at all: the edges, just inside the frame, were clean and straight like scissor cuts.

Suspicion growing, Weiss put her head out the window and looked left and right as well as down. She didn't see anything obvious, neither a ladder nor a pole nor a rope, but that didn't necessarily dispose of her suspicions. And when she brought her head back in, still turned to the left, her suspicion was confirmed. Just inside the room she saw where the piece of glass removed from the pane had been pushed behind the nightstand to temporarily conceal it.

They were being robbed. Or maybe worse; thanks to the Schnee Dust Company's power and wealth it was a popular target for anarchists, nihilists, and other bomb-throwing lunatics. But probably not; if that sort of person had broken in, Weiss would expect them to have rushed to the ballroom to cause as much death and chaos as they could get away with. _Subtle_ wasn't exactly those people's watchword.

Weiss's gaze went to her dressing table. There were no signs of disarray. She opened her jewelry box; nothing was missing that she immediately noticed. Likewise, the small handbag sitting out was untouched, the pin money in it all there. The most valuable pieces of jewelry were of course kept locked in a safe except for those rare occasions when Weiss wore one, but even so what was here in this room was worth several thousand pounds. No ordinary thief would have passed up the bounty.

"So if it wasn't for money, and it wasn't to spread terror," Weiss thought aloud, "then why did they break in?"

The obvious answer came to her almost at once. She sprang to the bell-rope and gave it three sharp pulls, then after a moment gave it three more, in case the servants had been so busy with their duties for the gala to recognize the alarm signal the first time. She then crossed the room to a wall rack which displayed something not found in most young ladies' bedrooms: a selection of fencing weapons. Weiss took down an estoc, a longsword with a triangle-shaped blade designed to thrust at the chinks and joints in plate armor. This one was a historical relic, a blade that had once belonged to a Prussian noble, but it also was kept in exquisite and lethal condition. So armed, she started for the door, then paused and snarled. Weiss looked down at herself, at the ruined party dress, then slashed the blade down one side, cutting the dress and petticoats open from hip to floor. If she needed to use the sword, she'd need to have as much freedom of movement as she could obtain.

Wisdom probably suggested that Weiss should wait for the servants to respond to her ring, but her temper could not handle any more patience. Gertrud's strictures, the boredom at the ball, the encounter with the clumsy girl, the ruined dress, and now the violation of her own room by this thief, whomever he was, had all built up into one seething fury that needed to be vented. And while Weiss couldn't unleash it on most of the people who had incited it, a housebreaker was fair game!

She darted up the hall, passing by her parents' room until she reached the study. This was where her father worked from when at home, where he kept all kinds of records and papers, details of Schnee business dealings that would be worth considerably more in the right hands than money or jewels.

Weiss yanked open the door and slapped the button for the lights.

"Stop right there, you!" she snapped. "Don't think that you can get away with this!"

For once that night, Weiss's luck was with her and she didn't find herself in the ridiculous position of barking commands at an empty room. On the contrary, she'd been dead right about the intruder; her father's safe was standing open and its contents scattered out on a coffee table. A woman was seated on the sofa, shuffling through the papers. She wore a bulky black bandanna tied over her head, with which her black hair made her look vaguely like a stage Gypsy, but the scarf wrapped around her lower face suggested more a bandit from the American West and the woman's outfit some kind of circus performer: tights and close-fitting top, with bare arms wrapped in coiled ribbons, a sort of waistcoat as a bodice, and a harness or belt around her hips and shoulders holding pouches, holsters, and the like. Even the hilt of a sword peeked from over her shoulders, marking the unknown woman as a definite threat.

On the other hand, she was sitting down, meaning that Weiss had caught her flatfooted, completely by surprise. The best way to win a fight was to keep the enemy from getting to start it in the first place.

Lifting the estoc, Weiss took a step forward, when the intruder lifted her hand. Light blazed into Weiss's eyes, destroying her sight. The heiress reeled backward, shock and defensive instinct both making her want to put distance between the two of them. She stumbled, though, and her shoulder hit the door-jamb even as she heard the rustle of papers caused by the intruder getting up. Her ballroom slipper came down on the inside of her hem where it had gotten folded up by her stumble, and she went over completely, unable to suppress a sharp cry when her hip and right shoulder hit the parquet floor. The estoc's point hit something, probably the edge of the desk, and was torn from her left hand.

Desperately, she blinked, trying to clear her dazzled vision, but Weiss didn't need to see in order to tell she was in serious trouble; the scrape of metal made by a weapon being drawn was more than enough.


	3. Chapter Two

Blake's mind was cold as she pulled her sword from its sheath. Things had been going so well, honestly much better than she could have expected, only to fall apart in an instant.

She'd recognized Weiss Schnee at once, despite the scarlet-spattered, ripped dress that made it look like she'd already been in a fight before even coming into the room. The heiress's white hair made her unmistakable; even in her slightly disheveled state London society's Snow Princess left her mark. If it had just been a servant, Blake might have been able to subdue him or her and continue on with her work, but Weiss's presence, particularly armed, meant that tonight's operation was wrecked. The heiress wouldn't have been charging into danger without raising an alarm, so Blake's various objectives were reduced to exactly one: escape.

Flashing her radiant into the woman's eyes had bought her a little time, but it wouldn't last. Blake had shoved the light into her pouch, then snatched at the papers in front of her, grabbing a couple of sheets from the file she'd been looking at. It wasn't sure that this was what she was after, but at least it had been promising. Those went into the pouch as well, and then she'd reached back over her shoulder for the sword.

If anyone had asked her later, she couldn't have explained why the sword was her first instinct. It might have been because Weiss had carried one of her own and she was just answering it on the same terms. It might have been because a blade was, fundamentally, a better weapon for intimidation than a firearm—there was something about being cut that turned the stomach in a way that was different from, worse than the mere fear of death, and it was also much easier to inflict injury without killing with an edged weapon. Or at the last it might just have been a matter of Blake's own style, even some kind of instinct, the curving Japanese _wakizashi_ something akin to a claw.

She sprang towards the heiress, grabbing Weiss by the hair and pulling her to her feet, holding the blade up just in front of her face.

"I hope you're not going to make things too difficult for yourself, Miss Schnee."

"You're not going to get away with this, you insufferable wretch!" Weiss shot back. Blake had to give her credit for courage, at least, regardless of how much of a pampered princess the heiress was.

"Oh, yes, I am, and you're going to help me."

"Don't be absurd! Why would I ever help you?"

"Because I'm sure you don't want me to carve up that pretty face of yours. It would make for a fairly awful birthday gift, I think."

"You're nothing but a disgusting coward. In a few minutes this wing will be positively swarming with guards. You don't have anywhere to run."

"Ah, but I won't have to run—not if I have a proper escort, such as the Schnee family's only child. I don't think your guards will be willing to risk your life just to catch me, do you?"

"I should have guessed someone who makes their living taking things that don't belong to them would threaten a woman's life to save their own skin. Despicable animal!"

"If I am, it's because it's what you made me," Blake shot back. She could feel the rage rising in her. This pampered little bitch thought she was so much better, when it was the suffering of people like Blake that had bought her those pretty dresses, paid for those fencing lessons that gave her the confidence to point a sword at another person. Red seemed to edge in at the corners of her vision, the boiling hate at all she'd endured focusing in on this one girl who stood before her. The urge to just cut her down was all but overwhelming; to slash the sword through Weiss's snow-pale neck throbbed in her mind like the pulse in her temples.

With a snarl, she drove the hate back down. Blake Belladonna had never killed anyone to indulge her emotions before, and she wasn't going to start now. _Ever._ No matter what Schnee had done, Blake had a goal, a purpose, and she wasn't going to abandon it.

The distraction must have showed in her eyes, her body language, though, because in that moment when Blake fought for control Weiss acted. Her knee shot up, driving between Blake's thighs with all the force she could muster. The blow wasn't as instantly incapacitating as it would have been against a man, but it still drove a sharp stab of pain through her abdomen and drew a gasp from her lips. Blake's grip slackened, and Weiss was able to yank her head free.

Unfortunately, there was more to it than that. Partly it was the way Blake hunched forward in response to the blow, partly the reflexive flinch of her arm, but either way her sword jerked forward and made the threat she'd offered only to try and cow the heiress into bloody reality. With barely more than a whisper's pressure to tell Blake what had happened, the keen edge slashed the left side of Weiss's face, cutting vertically down across her eye.

"Ahhh!"

Weiss fell away, blood glittering crimson in the electric brilliance. Blake's heart lurched—this wasn't what she wanted! But she couldn't let that stop her; she had to get herself together.

The heiress seemed to be dealing with the pain and shock better than Blake. She scrabbled on her hands and knees over behind the desk. Blake was a couple of steps behind, and got around just in time to see Weiss reach up under the kneehole and flip a toggle switch. There was a hissing, sparking sound from the switch—and from behind Blake in the hall came the whirr of gears and the squeal of metal on metal. She spun to see the two suits of armor stepping forward from their platforms, advancing towards the room.

They weren't suits of armor at all, but automata. Emergency security for the head of the company that could wait, unsleeping, for as long as needed without flagging in vigilance or attention. Their movement was jerky, almost comical, but no slower than an ordinary person's walk. Ignoring Weiss entirely, they advanced towards Blake, who gave ground while trying to figure out the best strategy for dealing with them.

She passed the sword from her right hand to her left, then drew a curious weapon from her belt holster. It had brass knuckles for a grip, a pepperbox barrel, and a six-inch spike extending downward from the grip, with a second blade that swung out to extend beneath the barrel. Blake fired twice, but the bullets ricocheted off the chest and faceplate of the lead automaton. It wouldn't be that easy to damage the clockworks as all that.

The automaton swung at her, its fist whipping through the air like a mace. Blake dodged to the left and slashed at the knight's neck as its fist shot by. The edge of her sword clanged off; she'd been hoping to separate body from helmet, but obviously that wasn't in the cards. She kicked the thing in the hip, hoping to topple it, but it was more stable than its lurching walk suggested and its weight made it hard to budge without leverage. The attempt nearly cost her as the second automaton swung an overhand blow at her and she only sprang back just in time, vaulting over the coffee table while the metal fist came down on the front corner, snapping a leg so that the tilting surface sprayed papers everywhere.

This was getting out of hand. Blake couldn't even manage a clean escape with those things after her. She flipped off the sofa, kicking at the top as she cleared it, but failing to topple it over like she was trying—it was too stable a piece of furniture. Snarling in frustration, she took the gun and smacked the lanyard ring up against a clasp on her ribbon-wrapped forearm, hooking it on. Unwrapping the ribbon, she whipped the gun low and hard around the nearer automaton's legs. Sheathing her sword to free a hand, she let the ribbon play out, then caught the gun as it swung around. Leaping forward, Blake swung the pistol down savagely at the second automaton and rammed the spike into a narrow seam between neck and shoulder. She wasn't even really trying for damage, just trying to anchor that end of the ribbon while she tried to wrap the other end around the automaton's arm.

The attempt was of mixed success. Blake managed to get the ribbon hooked, but it wasn't enough to tie down the knight's arm. It swung up in a backhanded arc, catching her across the midsection and sending her flying across the room to crash into a bookcase. Leather-bound volumes tumbled down around her and her senses swam.

_Get up, Blake_, she screamed at herself, but she couldn't quite seem to get her body to answer. Relentlessly, the automata advanced towards her, one going left, the other right around the sofa to get at her all the faster. That put enough distance between them that the black ribbon pulled taut. It strained, and for a moment Blake thought it would simply snap under the automata's weight and power, but the "ribbon" was actually made of woven wire mesh, and the weak link proved not to be its strength or the knights', but the metal warriors' balance. The one with the entwined legs toppled over with a crash, and its weight dragged the other down as well.

The ringing of metal seemed almost as a wake-up call for Blake, and the world slipped back into focus. Weiss Schnee, blood streaming down the left side of her face, looked up over the edge of the desk to see what was going on, and Blake flung one of the scattered books at her, making her duck aside.

Subtlety was pointless at this stage. Black darted to the window and undid the lock, then threw up the sash, no doubt setting off any alarms it was rigged with, but that hardly mattered now. She swung herself out, dangling at full extension from the sill to minimize the drop as best she could, then braced her feet against the wall and pushed off as she let go. Her stomach lurched with the sudden drop, but she cleared the stone terrace; when her boots hit the lawn she flexed her knees to absorb as much of the shock as she could and continued down through a tumbling roll before she came up to her feet again.

There was no time to waste, though. The guards would be after her soon and she had to _move_, to seek the shadows quickly or else—

"Hey, you there!"

There were two of them, closing on her rapidly. Blake had no doubt that she could outrun the Schnee guards, but one of the hired men was carrying a shotgun. Pure speed was no defense against a load of buckshot in the back.

_Buckshot._

The word sent images cascading through her mind. What were these hired men, company soldiers or a rich family's _gamekeepers_, sent to hunt her down like the animal—

She bit her lip, hard, the pain jolting her senses clear enough that she was able to stop and raise her hands, allowing the two men to approach instead of rounding on them.

"Well, what do we have here? Who's this little tart? Come to rob us, have you?" said the lead man, a bearded fellow with a truncheon. The one with the shotgun wore a cloth cap and was more of a no-nonsense sort.

"Come with us," he said, "and no tricks, mind."

He flicked the gun towards the house, indicating the direction in which she was supposed to go, and in that instant her foot came up, ripping the weapon out of his hands and sending it spinning away into the dark.

"Bloody whore!" Beard swore, whipping his truncheon down at her, but Blake was already ready for that, stepping in to grab his wrist and under his shoulder as her body came against him. With a quick surge of effort adding to his own momentum, she flipped him over her shoulder to crash hard onto his back.

While she was dealing with Beard, though, it gave Cloth Cap time to act and he did so, crashing into her at the waist and tackling her to the grass. Fury rising, Blake reacted more with desperation than any sort of plan, smacking the heels of her hands down over the man's ears and then raking his face. Pain and disorientation made his grip slacken, and she kicked and squirmed out from under him. A crack of her boot to his forehead stunned him long enough for her to get to her feet, and then she was off and running, leaving behind the cries and shouts of her pursuers as she vanished into the London night.

~X X X~

"_Please_, Miss Schnee, try to stop moving," Dr. Anstruther pleaded with Weiss as he dabbed at the wound.

"Why?" she snapped. "You've already told me that the injury is superficial and the only real threat is from infection."

"But if you don't let me properly stitch it up, it will scar!"

"So?"

That was clearly not the response he'd been expecting; his side-whiskers twitched and his monocle actually dropped from his eye as he drew back, aghast.

"But, Miss Schnee, you are the greatest beauty in Society! It would be a shame to—"

She let out a bitter sigh.

"It would be no more than I deserve, for letting her get the best of me," she murmured. Weiss could all but hear her father's voice echo in her mind, the velvet tenor tightly controlled and stripped of any emotion but the barest terms of contempt.

She looked down at her left hand and clenched it into a fist, then looked up again. The movement made Anstruther pull back again.

"Doctor, what do you think is more important to me?" Weiss challenged him. "My vanity, or the interests of the Schnee Dust Company?" She thrust a hand at the scattered papers. "The woman who did this to me wasn't some common thief. She was sitting here, calmly sifting through the documents from Father's safe! That isn't the act of some churl driven by simple greed; it's the act of an enemy. Do you propose I sit around worrying about my face and wasting time rather than doing what I can to pursue that enemy?"

Their eyes met, and despite being nearly three times Weiss's age, it was the doctor whose will broke, who was forced to look away.

"We understand each other, then."

"At the least, you must permit me to properly dress the wound. Whether it leaves a scar may be a matter of choice, but allowing infection to poison the blood is not."

Weiss nodded, accepting his point.

"Very well, but be quick about it." She looked up at Gertrud, who stood back, fussing uselessly as she had been doing since the servants responding to Weiss's ring had found the aftermath of the fight. "While he's doing that, please find Mr. Ashton and bring him here. I want to go over these documents with him to see what it was our spy was after. Then get someone to have these automata removed to Dr. Verhart's workroom. He'll want to examine them to see how they were thwarted and what can be done to improve their performance. Next time, it might be an assassin instead of a spy." She paused for a moment. "Gertrud, _now_."

"Y-yes, Miss Schnee."

It wasn't at all usual for the governess to stammer. What Weiss didn't realize was that while Gertrud had dealt with her charge's fits of temper and childish pique many times in the past, she was not at all used to a Weiss Schnee who calmly, coldly sat there, handing out orders like a queen rather than a pampered princess.

Weiss didn't realize any of this as the woman darted out. She only knew that there was a fire that burned in her gut much stronger than the brand down her face from the wound or Anstruther's disinfectant. It was the burn of humiliation, of hurt pride. This night was supposed to be her triumph, the celebration of her step into adulthood and all that came with it. Instead, she'd been forced to miss most of her own ball due to her injuries, she'd been physically beaten in close combat, and the Schnee family home's security had been overcome by a single person.

There was only one way to avenge that humiliation.

Find the woman.

Hunt her down.

Destroy whatever scheme she hoped to accomplish.

And make her regret that she'd ever raised a hand against Weiss's family.

~X X X~

The moonlight stabbed into Blake's eyes. Its cold shine and the hot flame of the gaslamps dueled, patches of light and light, heat and cold turning the world into a kaleidoscope shifting with every perspective-changing step she took, every turn of her head. She put a foot wrong, stumbling, barely maintaining her balance, lurching down the street.

Ribald laughter burst from a couple of male passerby across the way; it was clear they thought she was a prostitute, and one well the worse for drink besides.

"Want to ask her for a tumble, Bill? Maybe she'll forget to ask for the money!"

"Naw, Stanley; 'er sort'll remember the money even if they're passed out!"

Both men guffawed at that and the heat filled Blake's thoughts again, how it would feel to cross the street and tear open their throats, splash the shining red across the cobbles. She could all but scent it beneath their flesh, the hot life, the sweaty tang of fresh meat, weakness, prey to take.

She stumbled again, pulling the cloak more tightly around herself. She'd stashed the cloak before approaching the Schnee manor, then scooped it up on the way out so she could conceal her outfit, her equipment, make her way back home without being stopped. _Home. Think of home,_ she told herself, tugging her attention away from the men. From up the street, the smell of roasting chestnuts wafted towards her, the cry of the vendor's pitch stinging her ears. Blake closed her eyes, and her steps became more sure, her stance more balanced. Her ears told her of the creak of carriage wheels, the clip-clop of horses' hooves, the footfalls of people nearby so she didn't run into anyone, even the rattle of a steam carriage from several streets away (noisome things, only able to function because of Dust to slake the urge for fuel the way coal never could, Dust like all the other advances of the past decades, Dust, DustDustDust_DustSchnee_—).

She let out her breath in a gasping rush of air like there was some terrible pressure building up within her. Blake's mind felt like a boiler in a great engine, growing hotter and hotter, until— Another gasp, as if to vent pressure, and she leaned up against the building, her hand on the rough stone. She opened her eyes slowly, narrowing the scope of her vision by staring at the face of the building. She recognized it—her own lodging-house. Three sidealong steps to the left to reach the door. Now into the cloak pocket for the two iron keys on a twisted loop of wire. One into the door. No. Wrong. The other one. Turn. Open. Inside.

Blake didn't know if the gas was lit or the hall just seemed that way from the light streaming in from the street. Her fingers were slippery with sweat, clenched tight on the key as she found the narrow wooden staircase, steps creaking under her. Door. Next door. Here. Key. Lock. Turn. Open. Cloak. _No!_ Close. Closecloseclose. The latch snicking into place.

She all but tore off the cloak, dropped the sword. Dropping to her hands and knees, Blake crawled over to the wardrobe, got it open, swept the shoes away from the bottom to thud and rattle off the floorboards, and fumbled her hands across the bottom, finding the tiny gap and getting hold. She lifted up the fake bottom and reached inside, ignoring weapons and tools to take out an inlaid wooden box. The catch wasn't tricky, but it still took her nearly thirty seconds to operate it.

Inside. The syringe. The vials. _Get the corks out._ There! She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, her hands, her _mind_. The white powder, poured into the scarlet tincture, somehow without spilling. She got the cork back in cleanly, then shook the vial once, twice, back and forth until the mixture started to froth and bubble. She quickly removed the cork so the expanding pressure wouldn't break the glass. The red deepened and darkened to a rich purple shade, and she held her breath as the seconds ticked by until...

There!

The purple began to fade, as if it was being filtered out by some unseen sieve. The fluid paled, shifting, until it was a pale, watery green. Desperately trying to concentrate, Blake immersed the tip of the syringe into the fluid, drawing up nearly all of it. She nearly fumbled the needle transferring it to her left hand, managed to hold on.

Sleeve.

Cuff.

Slippery. Sliding between her fingers.

_Off._

Her hand clenched in the fabric and yanked, cotton tearing under the force of the pull, baring her arm.

"Almost," she whispered, passing the syringe back. She closed her right hand around it, slipped her fingers into the rings to help steady her grip.

Somewhere outside, a dog was barking. Moonlight spilled through the window and fractured, spilling fragments across the floor.

Blake drove the needle into her arm, thumb coming down over the plunger, emptying the contents of the syringe into her bloodstream.

She barely had time to get the syringe out.

_Agony._

Blake clamped her teeth together, stifling the scream that tried to tear its way out of her throat. The pain ripped at her nerves, flowing through every part of her body, wrenching, twisting, gnawing inside of her. She was being flayed from the inside out, an Inquisitor's knives working their will, a sadist's hymn played on the instruments of his victims.

Then...

Clarity.

She found herself stretched out on the floor of her room, half-sprawled across the hooked rug. Her muscles ached, arms and legs throbbing, but there was a soft coolness in her mind that soothed and washed away the pain. An aching body was fair respite for fractured senses made whole.

_I left it too long_, she told herself ruefully, seeing the dropped cloak, the scattered shoes, the dropped vials, the rest of the debris she'd left in her wake. She shouldn't have taken the chance, not on this of all nights. _But what else could I do?_ She'd just exhausted her last supply, and getting more wasn't easy. It might even be impossible.

Her infiltration of the Schnee manor was supposed to have opened doors, and maybe it had. She only hoped that she hadn't gone and closed as many in the process.


	4. Chapter Three

Ezekiel Ashton was a big man in all senses of the phrase. He was six feet tall and broad-built like a man used to heavy labor, massively powerful. In his fifties, now, a taste for fine foods and wines had him running to fat, so he must have weighed over three hundred pounds and only the excellence of his tailor made him thoroughly presentable in his immaculate evening-wear. Despite his size and build, there was a neatness about him, his gray-shot moustache and beard neatly trimmed, his thick, spatulate fingers manicured. He would never be compared to a bear, walrus, or ape the way other large men might; the brain simply refused to associate Ashton with any kind of animal metaphor. And he was big in the figurative sense as well, the Schnee Dust Company's director of English operations.

"My God, what is this?" he exclaimed at walking into the study. His eyes took in the wreckage, the strewn papers, the fallen automata, and then zeroed in on Weiss. "What on earth happened to you?"

"A clumsy oaf of a girl spilled wine on my dress." She gestured at the stain. "I came upstairs to change and I found that someone had broken into my room through the window. I rang the alarm, then investigated."

"That was very foolish of you, young lady. You could have been—" His eyes flicked to the bandages swathing her face, and amended his remonstrance. "You _were_ hurt, and could have been killed. Thieves are not gentlemen like in the dime novels, but vicious, desperate criminals."

"This thief touched nothing in my room, not jewelry, not money. I thought it more important to protect the company, and I was right. I caught her going through these papers she obviously got into by forcing the safe." She gestured sharply at the mess. "I'll grant you vicious and desperate, though. She disarmed and wounded me, and though I set the automata on her she defeated them and made her escape."

"We'll contact Garnet immediately," Ashton said, referring to the company's security officer in charge of the manor.

"Yes, but there are more important things to do than worrying about how this spy got in and out. Besides, he can't make any proper investigation until the ball ends."

Ashton grasped what she meant almost immediately.

"Of course. The least hint of scandal or disturbance tonight could cause us incalculable harm in the financial markets, perhaps even more than whatever it is our intruder intends. But your own absence will already have been noted, and you can hardly return like that."

"I've already taken care of that. I sent a message to have Aunt Margarethe announce that unfortunately I have been taken ill and could not rejoin the celebration, but that I insisted that the ball go on so that my own indisposition did not spoil everyone else's enjoyment."

_With luck, that stupid girl in red will blame herself, which will repay her for causing this fiasco!_ Though in another way, the girl's clumsiness had actually been a blessing in disguise. Without it, the spy's presence might not have been discovered for hours, by which time she might have gotten away with everything she wanted instead of being caught in the act and left to grab only a few documents.

"Excellent. Did you happen to see if—she, you say?—if she took anything with her?"

"She grabbed a couple of pages out of the file she was reading."

Ashton stroked his beard thoughtfully, his big hand all but engulfing the lower part of his face as he did.

"Very well; I'll need to establish what's missing and what consequences it might have. At least it may help to point our way towards the thief's employer. I think that will be all, Miss Schnee; I'm sure that Mr. Garnet will want to question you in the morning about your experiences. It will be an uncomfortable business, I'm certain, but I'm sure you understand that it will be necessary for the good of your family's company."

Weiss arched her right eyebrow at Ashton, a gesture she belatedly realized was nowhere near as effective with her left eye bandaged. Her tone of voice adequately expressed her mood, though.

"Ex-_cuse_ me, but you seem to believe I'm going to be packed off to bed like a good little girl to leave this affair in your hands. That is not going to be the case."

Ashton frowned.

"Miss Schnee, this is not the time for you to start engaging in petulant displays. This is a serious situation and the only way to acceptably resolve it is if you allow those of us who are capable of doing so to address it without interference."

"And I would remind you, Mr. Ashton, of what day today is. The purpose of the ball might serve as a clue." She waited a beat, to see if he'd either rise to the bait or capitulate at once; he did neither, letting her play it out in her own way. "It is my twenty-first birthday, meaning that as of today, I am not a child but a legal adult and the owner in my own right of a twenty-five percent voting share of Schnee Dust Company stock. With my father out of the country, I am the ranking member of the Schnee family's ownership group currently present, and I am _not_ going to pass off my responsibilities on others any more than he would!"

Ashton's eyebrows rose sharply.

"That is not at all what I expected to hear."

"After this," Weiss gestured at her bandaged face, "do you expect me to simply sit back and hide like a frightened child?"

"I would expect you to leave these matters to those who better understand them."

Temper flared, but Weiss throttled it. Ashton really _would_ think her a child if she threw a tantrum over the point. There was a time to unleash her anger, but this wasn't it.

The image of the intruder popped into her mind at the thought. _She_, most certainly, would feel the full force of that anger before they were through.

"I understand that I don't have the intimate knowledge of the company's affairs that my father does. That's why I sent for you, to help me navigate the complexities. But _you_ need to understand that I have trained all my life to fulfill my duty as heiress of the Schnee family, and that duty is not merely to act as a social asset or a bartering chip in a marriage alliance." She fixed her one-eyed gaze squarely on him. "Your role as director of the company's English operations is to facilitate our purposes, to support our goals with your undeniable skills. Royalty may quail at your voice, but when you speak, you do so for me. Do we understand each other, Mr. Ashton?"

His reluctance was obvious. That was no surprise; no English businessman, let alone one as used to authority as he was, wanted to take orders from a girl scarcely out of leading strings. But she didn't need him to like it. Respect she'd have to earn, but she _would_ have her due.

"I do, Miss Schnee."

"Good. Then I'll start with the most self-evident question. Is there anything in those papers that could put the Source at risk?"

He shook his head.

"No. Not unless your father was extraordinarily foolish."

Which he was not. Weiss would never think of calling him that.

"Good. That takes care of the worst fear, then."

"That doesn't mean that the thief knew that when she broke in. Even you didn't, so that may well have been what she was after."

Weiss shook her head.

"No; remember that she stole papers. That means that she was on the track of whatever she was after. She'd have known that whatever she was looking at didn't have anything to do with the secret to refining Dust." She rose from her seat. "I'm afraid you're going to have to go through these records. You're the only one who could reasonably put together this mess, _and_ the only one who ranks high enough to see all these files." She knew the compliment would help prop up the ego she'd battered, and it was easy to offer because it was the plain truth. "When you find out what's missing, come and see me, and we'll decide how to proceed."

"And what will you be doing?"

"I'm going to answer Mr. Garnet's questions, and ask _him_ a few of my own. There's nothing he can do to explain why, but there might be leads towards figuring out who."

~X X X~

The tip of a lit cigarette glowed brightly in the dark as air was drawn through it.

"You're late," the speaker said.

"I was delayed," Blake replied.

She was wearing the same cloak she'd had on during her return from the Schnee manor, but the rest of her wardrobe was completely different. She had changed into a white skirt and shirtwaist, a cameo at her throat the only ornamentation, and the headscarf had been replaced by a simple black bow, something of a trademark with her.

The speaker glowered at her.

"You should have sent word."

"I didn't have the opportunity. Hence the delay."

He took a step forward, into the pool of light from the gaslamp on the street corner. His height and sharp, clean-shaven features Blake could see already, but the light seemed to wash color over him, painting his red hair, scarlet-tinted spectacles, and tan ulster. A flick of his fingers spun the cigarette to the curb, and his boot came down, crushing it out. His eyes measured her, then softened.

"You left it too long?" It was part statement, part accusation.

"I didn't have a choice. I was down to my last supply."

"You should have come to me."

"No, I couldn't. You know that as well as I do."

His face darkened.

"Blake—"

She shook her head.

"I can tolerate it if I have to. Better than some of the others, at least."

"How long?"

"That's not important."

"_How long_?"

"...Three extra days." Before he could say anything, she rushed on. "You know that it doesn't take me as hard as it does most of us."

"For how long, if you keep doing this to yourself?"

"If I do it twice, that's nearly a full week, and a week means that somebody else gets what _they_ need."

"Is this some kind of penance for Jack?"

"No, it isn't." _Liar_, some part of her mind seemed to whisper at her. "But that doesn't mean that I want to see that happen again if I can help it."

His hand dipped into his pocket and came out with a vial. The tincture glinted in the gaslight, a deep scarlet like old wine as if it held secrets in its depths. Which, Blake reflected, was the literal truth. He then brought out a second vial, this one containing the white crystals of the chemical salts.

"This is from the last of the old supply."

She took the vials and put them away in her reticule.

"Thank you."

"I didn't think you wanted to come back just yet." He paused, then added. "No one blames you, Blake. It had to be done."

"Yes, it did. That doesn't make it any easier for people to accept. And you know as well as I do, Adam, that it would have been easier for them if it was someone other than me."

His lip curled, but he didn't contradict her. He knew the truth of it too well.

"It had to be you. You were uniquely placed."

Blake nodded.

"I know. But if I can do that, then I can use those same advantages for a better purpose."

"Such as pushing yourself beyond your limits?"

"Such as finding a way that none of us ever has to."

"And?"

"You're asking how it went? Badly."

"You couldn't get in?"

Blake favored him with a little smirk.

"Please. You don't have to be insulting. But no, I did get in. I got into the house, and I got into the records." She frowned. "Then I was interrupted. Apparently the birthday girl herself decided the present she wanted was to confront a burglar with her own hands."

"Weiss Schnee herself caught you?"

"Her dress had a big stain on it; I think she came upstairs to change and stumbled across me. Would you believe, she even had a sword? She was just dangerous enough to get herself hurt. She's lucky she wasn't killed, and I ended up cutting her face."

"It would have served her right if you had killed her."

Blake shook her head.

"I don't think so. She's barely my age; the pampered daughter of a rich family isn't going to be part of what the business does, and you can't hold her responsible for fifty years of Schnee Dust Company history." Blake folded her arms across her chest. "Maybe tonight will teach her that the world isn't there just to be given to her on a silver platter. Besides, if I'd killed her you know as well as I do that the Schnees wouldn't rest until they'd found me, and through me all of you. That's the one thing I can think of that would make them throw out any profit and loss balancing and just unleash all of their power on vengeance regardless of what it cost."

"You're right, of course. We can continue to live because it's not worth the money or risk of exposure to them to do what it would take to guarantee their victory." Adam snorted. "That doesn't make it any easier to think of that spoiled brat having a stained dress being what passes for a disaster in her life. Not after what we've been through."

Blake nodded.

"You can give her credit for one thing, at least. She didn't faint or curl up screaming when I cut her. Instead she crawled under the desk and turned loose a couple of automata. Suits of armor animated by clockworks and verdant Dust, to be specific."

"And you got away from them?" Since obviously she had, it was more of a prompt for her to continue than a genuine question.

"I was lucky; I managed to disable them temporarily by tying them together, but I lost my gun in the process."

"But were you successful?"

Blake reached into her reticule and took out the pages she'd managed to bring along with her.

"I don't know yet. I grabbed these when Miss Schnee caught me. The names in them might be useful."

"Don't you need them?"

"I took notes for myself, so you can keep these. You might be able to learn something that I cannot."

"I doubt it, but I'll do what I can."

"Thank you. I'll follow up on my own, of course, but we each have our different connections, avenues to explore."

"And this is too important to pass up any lead."

"Right."

"You'd better get going, then. You're going to need your rest if you're going to be any good to anyone, most of all yourself."

"Should I take that as a comment on my looks?"

Adam just curled his lip. Blake's own sense of humor didn't exactly run to uproarious levity, but he didn't have one at all. She chuckled softly.

"Good night, Adam."

"Blake." She'd started to walk away, but she paused in mid-step. "Stay in touch. I know that you don't feel like we're happy to follow you, but you are our comrade. You're one of us."

She wished that it was that simple. But for Adam, it genuinely was, and she didn't want to demean that by being dismissive or flippant to him.

"I won't forget," she told him, and headed into the night.

~X X X~

"It's a matter of balance." Verhart Grunwald clucked his tongue as he looked at the broken knights lying on the heavy workbenches. Powerful electric lamps gave the cavernous basement workshop a ghostly appearance; gleaming brass and dull iron were everywhere. "The weight distribution of an automaton is different than that of a man. The Dust furnace, the clockworks, the Analytical Engine, they are not bones and tissue! Making them fit the shell of a suit of armor..." He clucked his tongue again. "Form interfering with function, it is! Surely you can understand, Mr. Garnet, that the best security tools must be optimized for their use, not how they look!"

The Schnee family's engineer and automatist looked like a parody of what he was: a hunched, gnomelike man with a bald pate and gray side-whiskers, wearing a canvas apron over his shirt and trousers, the material heavily scarred by acid and heat. The fact that he was awake at this hour was no concession to his employer's needs; he was virtually nocturnal by habit. Weiss had been extremely surprised when she'd learned that he was a widower with four grown children and eleven grandchildren.

"Looking ordinary is part of their function," Mitchell Garnet replied. "Mr. Schnee doesn't want some obvious war machine sitting around his home." Though only in his forties, his deeply grooved face, long lines like scars descending his cheeks and framing his bushy moustache, made him seem much older.

"Then Mr. Schnee will just have to expect that their ability to fight off their opponents will be compromised."

"Can they be repaired?" Weiss cut in, hoping to shorten a debate whose outcome she didn't care about.

"Oh, yes. The Dust crystals were intact, thank the good God, so it is only a matter of replacing a few damaged gears and restoring some parts of the mechanism that had been jarred loose. It will take no more than a day or two."

"Excellent. In that case, if you gentlemen can turn your attention to what caused the damage in the first place, we might make distinct progress."

She'd already gone over what had happened with Garnet here in Dr. Verhart's laboratory, where the automata and the woman's weapons alike could serve as exhibits. He'd shared in return the story of the two hired men's encounter with the escaping intruder out on the grounds. Fortunately, both would be all right, though one would need some days of bed rest to recover from a concussion.

"This, you mean?" Garnet said, picking up the gun. "It's called an apache pistol, after the French criminals who often use them, not the American Indian tribe. This way they can carry one weapon, and have access to a pistol, a knife, and brass knuckles." He demonstrated how folding or unfolding the weapon could allow it to be used in different configurations that were best for one or another function. "This second knife blade under the gun barrel, that's less than usual. An old gun, the Elgin Cutlass, had a blade like this, only bigger, like a Bowie knife, but it's not at all what you see in apache pistols, for them to have two blades."

"What about the whip?" Weiss asked.

"You mean this?" He picked up the mesh strap and dropped it back on the bench. "Are you sure it happened like you say?"

"Yes! Or are _you_ implying that I am some sort of hysterical female? She had that strap wound around her arm, and took it off and clipped it onto the gun, then threw the gun holding the strap like it was the end of a whip, caught it, and stabbed it into a joint on one of the automata to anchor it. It wasn't some random activity, but a quick, practiced motion."

Garnet shook his head.

"I've never heard of such a thing. I suppose that with the second blade, it might be used as a grappling hook? It's already a multi-purpose weapon, after all. Though I wouldn't care to be throwing a firearm around as a tool."

"There's a safety-catch on the gun," Dr. Verhart explained, "but I agree—the idea of trusting such a thing is quite risky. Not unlike catching it, to be sure—an irregularly-shaped object with multiple knife blades." 

"So it was something she'd trained to do," Weiss said. "Like I said before, something she'd practiced in doing." She looked at Garnet. "I would think that would help your investigation. Surely London's underworld cannot be filled with women thieves who use such an unusual weapon."

"Yes, well, quite," he murmured under his breath. Weiss wasn't sure exactly why he seemed to be truculent about it. Perhaps it was just that he, too, was having difficulty adapting to the idea of taking instructions from her, when before now she'd just been part of his duties as one of the things he had to protect.

_Or maybe it's just that his professional pride's been hurt._ That woman had gotten past armed watchmen, locked and alarmed windows, an up-to-date safe, and even two automata. Weiss could certainly appreciate that a man like Garnet might feel as if he'd been made to look a fool. Considering that not only had valuable papers been stolen but Weiss also injured, he might even fear for his job—a sentiment that Weiss was not herself just ready to dismiss as yet. _We'll catch this woman first, and see just how flawed Garnet's security actually was, and how much use he proves in bringing her down._

"Indeed, I would think she'd be fairly notorious, a woman who wields a gun-knife combination on the end of a metal cord. Or, not really a cord, is it? I thought it was a ribbon, or a leather strap, when she had it around her arm, but it's actually metal, isn't it? I guess that it's painted black so that it doesn't reflect light?"

"Very likely. That's an old soldier's trick, to use soot to blacken metal at night. Paint's probably easier for her purposes."

"From what I've seen, metal cables are usually made of braided wire. Why is this one like this? It looks like a strip of chain mail."

Dr. Verhart shrugged.

"That's basically what it is. It would give considerably increased flexibility if used as a rope or cord. You say she wore it wrapped around her forearm? Then it could be used as armor as well, though the metal is quite lightweight." He frowned thoughtfully. "One of the new alloys, no doubt; there are a few of them being developed that enhance the properties of ordinary steel."

"I know that; some of the metallurgical research is taking place at Schnee-owned subsidiary firms," Weiss snapped testily. The engineer clucked his tongue at her.

"Tetchy, are we, Miss Schnee?"

"I have had my birthday ball ruined, been attacked in my own home, had my face sliced open, been humiliated by a stupid thief, and am up far too late. Doctor, I am _so far_ beyond tetchy."

"Hmm. Well, then, permit me to at the least assist you somewhat in improving your mood, yes? I think Mr. Garnet will bear me out when I suggest that your burglar's weapon was by no means ordinary." Since Garnet had in fact already made that point, Dr. Verhart didn't wait for him to repeat himself. "I think that were I to have something so unique and thus something I have spent many hours on practicing, and I lost it, then I would seek to replace it."

"You said these apache pistols got their name from the French gangs that use them," Weiss asked Garnet. "Are they common among our English criminals as well?"

He shook his head.

"Not particularly. Firearms aren't so common among the English criminal classes; if they were our bobbies couldn't keep order with just their truncheons. And those that do, they just use ordinary weapons: an army Webley, a Colt's Navy, perhaps a derringer or other pocket pistol if they're being subtle or if they're concerned with emergency protection instead of active firepower. A thing like this, it's for someone who thinks differently about its use than most of our nobblers."

"So there are cultural differences even between thieves and murderers. But in that case, there would be relatively few places where she could turn to replace this gun. It's basic economics: where there is little demand for something, there's rarely a significant supply."

"Especially when you factor in this mesh ribbon. This is undoubtedly a custom piece."

"So, the next step is plain. Mr. Garnet, you doubtless have access to a variety of informers of underworld activity, be it through the police, company security, or on your own. The list of possible gunsmiths who could replace this can't be long, and you should be able to find out which is the correct one soon enough. We won't need to hunt her down, not when _she_ will come right to _us_.

"And then," Weiss concluded, her face an angry mask, "she'll be _mine_."

~X X X~

_A/N: Apache pistols? Completely real (though using them like a _kusari-gama_, there's not so much with the reality there); I bet Monty would love them. As is the Elgin Cutlass, basically the mating of a pistol with a Bowie knife. And then there's the Le Mat revolver, not mentioned here...which is a revolver, but with an extra barrel...which is for a shotgun (so yes, not only is the idea of a "gun-gun," as Kerry Shawcross once said, feasible, it's even been done!). Hybrid weapons may not be so ubiquitous in real life as they are in _RWBY_, but they do in fact exist._

_A "nobbler" is Victorian thieves' cant for a criminal whose practice is in the infliction of violence._


	5. Chapter Four

"You told her?"

Ezekiel Ashton was not known as a man who had a temper. Even in a rage, his fury burned cold and long, cold as the snowflake design of the company he served implied he'd be. In the boardroom, he could tear apart an adversary without so much as raising his voice.

If Garnet hadn't known the man's reputation, he wouldn't have believed it at that moment. Any burning going on was hot and bright. Garnet was an ex-soldier; he was used to violence, and Ashton's anger combined with his physical presence made him feel like he was back on campaign.

"You _told_ her about the weapon being rare and unique, how you'd be able to trace it?" he completed his outrage.

"What would you have had me do?" Garnet came back swinging, in no way willing to buckle under.

Ashton gritted his teeth.

"She's a little slip of a girl! She may be the daughter of the Schnee family, but she knows nothing of the world except what she's studied. She isn't suited for battle—not political, not economic, and certainly not in its literal sense. You saw for yourself what happened to her last night! She could have easily been killed."

"I'm aware of that."

"Are you? It seems to me that if your security had done its job properly, she'd never have come near to being in actual combat."

"Don't think that you can scapegoat me for what happened last night—"

"Scapegoating means to shove blame onto someone else, someone undeserving. The security of this building _is_ your responsibility, and regardless of justifications or excuses, you failed at it. Property was destroyed, documents were stolen, and above all, Miss Schnee was harmed! That _will not_ happen again!"

"It won't."

"Won't it? Even her father, who is as hands-on a business leader as I've known, would never pursue and confront an intruder directly if he had another option. He knows the difference between valor and foolhardiness. Miss Schnee is young and hot-blooded; she sought out the thief last night and I am certain that she intends to face her in person. She's already made it clear to me that she wants to lead the investigation of the incident, and I am sure that she includes a desire to run the culprit to ground in person, like the detective in a yellow-backed novel. Or did she imply something different to you?"

"No, I think you're right."

Ashton shook his head, the movement so emphatic that it made his huge torso shiver and his watch-chain throw back the morning sunlight in a shower of silver flashes.

"I do not know if it is romanticism or youthful pride or both, but it is unacceptable. While I am happy Miss Schnee seeks to be a credit to her name rather than a useless ornament, this way of doing it is not acceptable! What if she is kidnapped or killed while throwing herself into danger like this? No, Mr. Garnet, our duty is to shield her from the harm she would inflict on herself—and instead you handed her the ability to seek it out more readily!"

"Then what was I supposed to do? Lie to her?"

"If need be, yes!"

"Then I would suggest that you win Dr. Verhart's cooperation in your scheme. He was right there, supporting her at every turn, telling her how strange and rare the thief's equipment was. She came up with the idea on her own from there. She isn't a fool even without that experience you talk of. She even put the old gnome in his place once, and you know how difficult that can be. She has a whip for a tongue."

Ashton glowered at that. Garnet deduced that he'd gotten to feel the rough edge of it directly, no surprise if he'd expressed the sentiments about keeping her safe and uninvolved to her directly.

"That is not the point."

"Then what is, because it seems to me that if I'm being blamed for what Miss Schnee does, then whether or not I could have done anything about it is very much on point."

Ashton all but growled audibly.

"What's important is that this is a matter for us to resolve, not her. So you will pursue this lead as if at her behest, only when you have followed it to its end you will bring the results to _me_, and _we_ shall bring this matter to a conclusion without involving the precocious but foolhardy Miss Weiss Schnee." He waited a beat. "Do we have an understanding, Mr. Garnet, or will you place your trust in the hope that a young girl's whim shall remain fully focused on this matter once her mood turns?"

"Yes, Mr. Ashton," Garnet said, then grudgingly replied, "sir."

"Good, then you had best be about your duties. The more time passes, the more likely it is that she will take some even more reckless course of action on her own."

Garnet glared at him from beneath furrowed brows.

"And just what will you be doing during all this?"

Ashton's lip curled into what would have been a sneer, but the expression held too much anger for that.

"Do not presume that I am in any way answerable to you, Garnet. You try my patience. But if you must know, while you scuttle about, trying to follow up a lead that you should have kept to yourself, I am going to be meeting with Miss Schnee, trying to keep from adding any more fuel to the fire."

With an expression of utter disgust, he spun on his heel and marched out of the room, leaving Mitchell Garnet with much the same feeling as if a storm cloud had just passed by overhead.

~X X X~

Blake smiled at the chaos as she passed through the reporters' bullpen at the _Star_, already alive with the clatter of typewriter keys and fast-paced voices barking into telephone receivers. Despite the urgency of her situation, she still couldn't help but enjoy the energy of the room.

"Why, Bella-_donna_! How good of you to join us," a female voice called out from the far side of the room. "You must have had quite an evening to arrive this late."

"While you must have had quite a successful morning, Amy, to have you crowing so energetically."

Amethyst Nell, the _Star_'s society reporter, was twenty years Blake's elder, with brassy blonde hair and a too-heavy use of cosmetics. She wore lilac and green, a bright contrast to the younger woman's white and black.

"Why of course. Surely you've read my story in the Stop Press. The Schnee ball last night!"

"I'm afraid not. Reading the society news just depresses me. The stories of how the inbred and overdressed waste their money while people all around us go hungry in the streets aren't encouraging."

"Haw! Damme, Amy, she's got you there!" laughed Burnham Brown, whose desk was next to where Nell was standing. He tipped back in his chair, cigarette dangling dangerously from the corner of his mouth. As usual, he'd tossed his suit jacket over the back of that chair to work in shirtsleeves and suspenders, but his bowler hat was perched at a jaunty angle on his head. "Our Bella's a radical, she is."

"Do hush, Brown. Besides, I think Miss Belladonna will find this news quite to her liking, given those sentiments."

"Oho? Do tell!" Brown snapped forward and whirled his chair around to face her, its legs scraping on the floor. "What befell the rich and newsworthy at the Schnee ball?"

Nell sighed, rolling her eyes theatrically.

"What, you too? An artist always goes unappreciated in her own time."

Blake might have chimed in with another riposte at that point, but the mention of excitement at the ball had her a little off her game. She'd have expected the Schnees to conceal what had happened to Weiss, but Blake knew that it was hard to keep secrets from getting out. Dealing with Schnee Dust Company alone was bad enough, but if the police got involved things could get quite difficult for her.

"Well! In any case, there was quite a to-do at Weiss Schnee's birthday ball. She's twenty-one, you know, and still unmarried, which itself is not at all the thing. She's but a year or two from being _on the shelf._"

"When the stakes are more wealth and power than most of the crowned heads of Europe possess, it's not surprising that the Schnees would exercise more patience than the average matchmaker on the Marriage Mart."

"Bella-_donna_, must you be so tiresomely practical _all_ of the time?"

"Yes."

Blake's dry tone prompted a guffaw from Brown.

"She's got you there, Amy! Better get to the story if you intend to get one up on her."

"Oh, very well." A smile washed the pout off her face, showing how much she was savoring the juiciness of her tale. "But would you believe, Miss Schnee was _injured_ at her very own ball?"

"Damme, that is a story!" Brown yelped.

"What happened? Was it such a crush that she was hurt in the press of the crowd?"

"No, no, or at least that isn't what seemed to happen. A girl spilled a glass of punch on her."

"I don't think even the Snow Princess would consider that a major injury, as much as the damage to her pride might be crippling." Blake still had something of a bad taste in her mouth after phrases like "insufferable wretch" and "despicable coward."

"Yes, you'd _think_ that—but then, why, some time after she had left the ballroom, did her aunt announce that Miss Schnee had fallen ill and would be unable to return? And why did Rhodyle Anstruther, the noted Society doctor known to have the Schnees among his many wealthy and titled patients, _also_ vanish from the ballroom shortly after talking to a servant, hmmm? Oh, there's more going on here than a glass of punch, believe you me."

"So she tripped and fell down the stairs or something," Brown said. "That's kinda sad, seeing as how she's a pretty girl, but it's not news, just the usual society gossip."

Ordinarily, Nell would have gotten quite put out at the slur against her work, but not that morning.

"Oh, no, Brownie, not even when I tell you what I heard from two of the housemaids?"

"Well, well, Amy Nell bribes the maids and peeps through keyholes like the rest of us common muckrakers, now, does she?" He really didn't like to be called "Brownie."

"Of course she does; she's a newswoman, isn't she?"

"Bella!" Nell beamed at what had been both meant and taken as a compliment. Just because Blake didn't _like_ her didn't mean she didn't respect her work. "So kind of you."

Blake smirked.

"Enough teasing, Amy. What did you learn?"

"Well! Apparently this is all very hush-hush, and I wasn't even allowed to put the rumors into my story, but apparently it wasn't an _accident_ at all. In point of fact, Weiss Schnee was attacked by an intruder, apparently some kind of assassin!"

_Do they really think that?_ Blake managed to keep from blurting aloud. _No, that's impossible. She caught me in the act of rifling the safe. It's just servants' gossip; no one in authority could believe that I was there to murder her._

"That's ridiculous," Blake said. "You said yourself that Miss Schnee only left the ball because punch was spilled on her dress. If it hadn't been for that, the so-called assassin might have had to wait for hours, trying to hide in a manor full of guests and staff."

She didn't know why, but the idea of being seen as a killer instead of a thief or spy bothered her.

_No...You know why._

"Blake's got a point," Brown said. "Really, the only way that works is if the killer could plan out an ambush. That girl who spilled the punch, she'd have had to have done it on purpose. Miss Schnee would have to leave the ballroom then, and would walk right into a trap."

That sounded appallingly plausible. If Blake herself hadn't been the intruder, she'd have found the story at least worthy of speculation.

"Do you know if the police were called in?" she asked Nell. "Surely if it was an attempted assassination, they would be."

"Maybe so, maybe not," Brown countered. "They might not want the news to get around, in order to save face or prevent a business panic. Or they might have called in the Yard but they're keeping it quiet as a favor. Commissioner Munro probably belongs to all the same clubs and whatnot as Schnee and their cronies, and the same reasons apply."

"Why, Brown, you're becoming positively morbid in your suspicions."

He waggled his eyebrows.

"I've got a nose for news, Amy dear."

"Well, if it's true, we shall certainly hear more of it. They can quash these first hints as being only rumor and innuendo, but the truth will out!"

"I still can't believe there's anything to it," Blake summed up.

"Well, there's no doubt that the poor girl was definitely injured, even if it was truly an accident, and that is sad in and of itself."

"She probably deserved it."

"Bella-_donna_, how positively _callous_ of you."

"Our Blakey's a radical, right enough."

"Which reminds me, Brown, that I need to talk to you. Are you busy?"

"Very, meaning that I'm all the happier to find an excuse to leave it alone." He got up from his seat and straightened his hat. "Lead on, MacDuff."

"It's 'lay on,' and it doesn't mean to lead, you know."

He plucked the cigarette from his lips and stubbed it out.

"That's assuming that I was misquoting Shakespeare, and not just nicknaming you MacDuff, Blakey-girl. There's the horrors of too much education, right there."

Blake rolled her eyes.

"And he claims to be a writer. Good luck with Miss Schnee, Nell."

"Thank you. I'm off to squeeze some expense money out of our dear editor-in-chief so I can follow up on the story. Ta-ta!"

"I have no idea why she didn't go on the stage," Brown said as they watched her saunter across the newsroom, before going back into Blake's cubbyhole of an office. The tiny room didn't even have a window, and if it was any smaller it might have served as a closet, but it was four walls and a door, which Blake was grateful enough to have, particularly at her age. "Now, what's this about? I'm guessing you need some kind of favor? Damme, you're on to something again, aren't you? You always manage to land the juiciest scoops."

"I...have something in the works that might make for a good story, but I can't really be sure if it's something that I'll be able to publish. It could wind up doing more harm than good."

"Lowestoft wouldn't like to hear you talking like that. 'We're here to sell papers, not as agents for social justice,' he'd say."

Blake smirked, surprising herself given the topic of conversation. Brown had even gotten the cadence right.

"That's why I'm talking to you, not to him."

"All right, then, but I want in."

"Excuse me?"

"If I'm going to be doing spade-work for your story, then I want in on it. Shared credit."

"I can't do that, Brown."

"Then it seems to me, if you want to keep all the credit for yourself, you can earn it yourself." He fished out his cigarette case and took out one of the strong Russians he liked. Since he never lit up in Blake's office out of courtesy, it was a sure sign he was on his way out the door.

"That's not it!" she hastened to say. "It's just...this is important, and if I make a mistake, a lot of people could be hurt."

"Can't you trust me?"

"It isn't about trust," she began, then realized that was wrong. "No, I suppose that it is, just not in the way that you mean."

He turned back to her, perhaps interested more by how she seemed to be struggling with the problem rather than the problem itself.

"Then how? 'Cause I am really not seeing it here."

"It's about the people who are trusting _me_. The ones who are putting their safety, their lives into my hands. I can't turn around and hand that off to someone else unless I can be absolutely certain about it."

Brown tapped the unlit cigarette against the outside of the case for about ten seconds or so while he thought it over.

"It's that serious?"

Blake nodded.

"Yes, it is."

He thought it over for another few seconds.

"All right, then, I'll go this far: I'll run your errands, and if you decide to keep it under your hat when all's said and done, then that's it, you can go ahead and leave me in the dark. If you decide to publish, _then_ you bring me on board, but not before. That work for you?"

Inwardly, Blake gave a sigh of relief. She hadn't quite realized how tense she'd gotten over the possibility he'd leave her high and dry, forced to find her own sources instead of using his.

"Yes, that's fine. Indeed, if I do publish the story, I could use the help to make sure it gets out."

"Then let me have it, Bella. What's the favor you need from poor old me?"

"You've kept up with your contacts in the City?" she asked, referring to the City of London, the financial heart of the British Empire.

"Of course. City business isn't quite so juicy as the _Police Gazette_ stuff you do, but I get some first-hand muck to rake through from the financial trade."

"Then I need you to ask your contacts about a company called Pandora Development, Ltd. Most of all, I need an address—business office, plant, anything at all."

"I'm guessing these folks aren't someone you can just look up in the city directory."

"You're right; they're not." She'd actually checked, since it never paid to overlook the obvious, but this time the obvious had been a dead end. "If it exists as a legal entity, then there must be papers filed, records kept, maybe even someone who does business with them."

"And that's it? Just an address?"

Blake nodded.

"That's all. I would be interested in any other information you come across in the process, but I don't want you to go to any extra trouble beyond that. The more people that you talk to, the more likely it is that the wrong person will hear and get word back to those who would want to get in my way—and I don't know whom that wrong person could be."

"Hm, I see what you mean there." He scratched the left side of his jaw. "I'll see what I can find out for you."

"Thanks; I mean it. Oh, and one other thing."

"Yes?"

"If any of your contacts are particularly close to the Schnee Dust Company, you might not want to bring them in on this. It could get...unpleasant."

Brown's eyebrows shot up.

"That's the way it is?"

Blake nodded.

"Yes."

"Heh." The other reporter smirked at her. "And here's Nell off chasing a girl twisting her ankle on the stairs or whatever, and all this time you were on the trail of something really big. She's going to eat her liver if she learns about it."

Of course, it was actually the same story, but that probably wouldn't actually affect Nell's envy if she knew.

"That's sneaky of you, listing the reasons why I ought to push the story to press."

"Doing my best," he said with a wink, then opened the door and sauntered out of the office. Blake just dropped into her chair, laughing.

~X X X~

The library of the Schnee manor was an impressive room, fit for a palace. At one end, between curving walls lined with shelves and beneath a narrow window of diamond panes that rose to an arched point twelve feet above the floor, sat a massive rosewood desk, behind which waited Weiss Schnee. She wore a dress in the same ice-blue as her ball gown had been, but of a much simpler cut, and rather than the elaborate coiffure she wore a simple ponytail like a farm-girl might, only unusual because it was off-center, about halfway to her right ear and held in place by her snowflake clasp.

The late-morning sun streaming through the window bathed the heiress's back and shoulders, warming the girl. It fell across the desk, the beams broken up by the panes picking out headlines on the copy of the _Times_ sitting out. There was a conference regarding limits on the military use of airships to be held in Paris in two days, an American railway magnate had made an offer to buy out the Great Northern, and the Duke of Merlington's proposed mining conglomerate was said to be under fire. There was nothing about a debacle at the Schnee birthday ball; mention of it at all had been confined to the society columns and there was no reference within to a mysterious masked intruder or any kind of fight taking place. Neither Weiss's own clash with the spy nor the later fight with the guards had apparently been noticed by the world at large.

_This must be what they mean when they say, "Thank Heaven for small favors."_

"Miss Schnee?"

She looked up to see Ashton approaching her, then rose to greet him. "Mr. Ashton," was her only response, and she invited him with a gesture at the chair opposite, sitting back down herself once he was settled.

"I'm surprised that we're meeting here," he remarked. "Wouldn't the study be easier?"

"That room is my father's, and to a lesser extent your own. This will do well enough for me until I feel that I need a proper office to myself."

It was funny, she thought, how much she didn't want to take over her father's study. Maybe it was exactly because it _was_ his; it hardly made sense for her to assert her independence by doing nothing different than he was already doing. Weiss was twenty-one now, and as she had attempted to make clear to Ashton, that meant that _things had changed_.

His present truculence suggested that either the lesson hadn't fully taken hold or that change wasn't to his liking. She'd have to disabuse him of those notions if they were going to work together with any effectiveness.

"As you say," he said, plainly seeing the decision as something all but pointless, a child's petulant whim.

"The question is, what do you have to report to me?"

He frowned at that, no doubt resenting her tone along with everything else.

"Very little, I'm afraid."

Weiss arched her eyebrow at him in a deliberately questioning gesture, then realized she'd raised the one on her dominant left side, which was covered up by the bandages and therefore the expression would hardly be able to have any effect.

"It's been nearly twelve hours since I gave you this job," she settled for saying. _No wonder he resents me, if this is all the better that I can do._

"Miss Schnee, perhaps you do not understand the scope of the task. The intruder had removed eleven files from the safe. Of those, three were capable of being fastened and remained closed, and so stayed intact. The remaining eight were either open or unable to be closed. All of them had been laid out on the coffee table. Several had been sitting open and had some or all of their contents taken out for examination. Then the table was destroyed and a battle fought across its remains.

"I'm _aware_ of that, Ashton," she shot back, deliberately omitting the "Mister." She pointed to her bandaged eye. "As you might have noticed, I was actually there when it happened."

"Then you should understand the circumstances. Papers were strewn about freely, not only disordered but mixed among others from different files. In addition, several pages were torn or damaged, something that I presume was caused by the automata walking or falling on them. Before I can tell you definitively what is _missing_, I need to restore what is _there_. Even if the missing pages are ones whose absence would leap out to me at once, I would still need to sort through every last document to establish that they are not among them."

"I didn't call on you for excuses. Somewhere out there we have an enemy, one capable of bringing in a skilled and motivated burglar who avoided the guards, broke into the manor, found Father's safe and cracked it without the use of explosives or noisy tools, and knew enough about the company's workings to search through the files for whatever it is she was after. Until we learn what the threat even _is_, we have no way to defend ourselves! Is there any point of this you are having trouble understanding?"

Ashton folded his hands in his lap, frowning.

"Miss Schnee, were you in my position you would realize that the Schnee Dust Company, its holdings, and its interests face myriad enemies at all times, many of whom remain completely unknown to us, ranging from rival companies to sovereign nations to bomb-throwing nihilists. This may be new to you, but—"

The sharp crack of her palm hitting the desktop cut him off short.

"Don't you _dare_," she snapped right back at him. "Do you think I don't know that? Why my uncle never celebrates Christmas any more after his wife and son were killed in Trieste? Why your predecessor retired so suddenly? How when I was ten I lost my previous governess because she was caught taking bribes to spy on Father's correspondence? _Don't_ sit there sneering at me like I'm some kind of naive innocent who has no idea what the real cost of what we are doing could be."

"I...apologize for the implication."

Weiss settled back into her seat.

"I realize that you have work of your own to get back to, important work for both the day-to-day and long-term operations of the company. It can't be all that easy for you to be reduced to the role of a file clerk. But the fact that you've been forced into this role is telling, too, of how unusual the situation is and how important it is for you to finish quickly." She bit off the last two words sharply, emphasizing them.

"I will do what I can. Believe me, I have no more liking for this than you do."

"Good. Then we can both be done with it and move on to finding an effective counter-strategy."

Ashton nodded.

"With your leave, then, I will return to that work." When Weiss returned the nod, he rose from his seat and headed off to the door. Only after she'd heard it click shut did she let out a sigh and sag back in her chair. Her unbandaged eye drifted shut as she allowed herself to drop the facade. The wound, superficial as it supposedly was, throbbed painfully; Dr. Anstruther had given her laudanum to take for the pain, but Weiss refused to muddle her head when it was so important for her to be strong, to earn respect from men like Ashton.

_Not that he's done anything so far to deserve it,_ she told herself. _I only hope Mr. Garnet has had better luck with his work than Ashton has had so far, or else respect or its lack won't make any difference._


	6. Chapter Five

Weiss's hopes were doomed to disappointment, however, as while Garnet made a number of improvements to the security of the manor, his investigation into the gunsmiths and arms-suppliers known to his contacts yielded nothing for him to report. Ashton, for his part, had managed to reassemble most of the records so that they could be put into the new safe when it was installed, but there hadn't been anything productive to be learned.

"The missing pages came from a personnel record," he'd told her. "Details of assignments, transfers, positions held, and the like for various key individuals in the Schnee family of companies. The problem is, it's impossible to tell whose records were taken without having access to the original documents, which we obviously don't."

"There isn't some master index to the file?" To Weiss, that would have seemed like an obvious choice, even if it was just a typed list of names.

Ashton had shaken his head, though.

"I'm afraid not; if there had been, then it was among what was taken."

"Then how do you know, if you don't mind me asking, that the papers stolen were from this file at all?"

His sour look had seemed more directed at himself, or his work, than at her.

"By a process of elimination. The other seven possible files were by all accounts complete, unless what was taken was a loose page unconnected to the remaining materials."

"I see."

"My suspicion is that one of our rivals—corporate or national—intends to extract one of our personnel, probably an automatist or Dust researcher, to work for them, and they wanted information on his or her location, employer, family, and the like."

"Surely if they could identify their target, they would know these things already."

"There's a reason those files were kept in your father's private study, Miss Schnee. The information in them is more...comprehensive...than an ordinary record might include."

"Comprehensive in what way?"

"They include private information that might be used as leverage against the individual in certain circumstances. Alcoholism, for example, or a gambling habit. Radical political leanings. Sexual proclivities that might bring them into contact with a dangerous element."

"So if one of our competitors, or the French, Russians, or Germans got hold of this information, they could use it to blackmail the person in the record into working for them, or to spy on us."

"Very possible."

"But for something like that, I'm amazed that she didn't just take the whole file! Why do we even _have_ a file like that?"

Ashton had not answered it at once, merely given her a long, measured stare. She'd come to the correct conclusion in a very short period of time.

"We need to know because it lets us be on guard against those weaknesses. If we know that a man is a cad and a womanizer, we can keep watch to make sure his mistress isn't a spy. If we know a woman has a gambling problem, we can make sure that her losses don't lead her to embezzle to cover for them."

"Accurate, in part, but that is also quite naive of you, Miss Schnee."

"What do you mean by _that_?"

"Think about it for a while, and when you have the answer, then you'll be ready to fill the position you're trying to assume."

He'd walked off then, decisively winning that third of their three encounters. That had infuriated Weiss, but when she'd done as he said (annoyed as she was, she was hardly going to let a riddle pass by unanswered), irritation had been replaced by a lingering disquiet.

The answer, of course, was that the Schnee Dust Company kept such records because they themselves used the information in them. Perhaps that was how certain employees had been convinced to take their jobs in the first place. Or how they could be "persuaded" to take ethically dubious actions, or to contain a scandal by keeping quiet, accepting blame, and not implicating others. She wasn't stupid, after all; she read the papers and was well aware of the kind of dirty business various industrialists, trust magnates, and "robber barons" could get up to. Logic suggested that of course the largest financial entity in Europe would be involved in such practices. There was certainly nothing to suggest her family were paragons of virtue.

But they were still family.

~X X X~

"This couldn't wait until we got back to the office tomorrow?" Brown asked as the waitress walked away after delivering the pot of tea.

Blake shook her head.

"If you wanted to wait until tomorrow, you shouldn't have telephoned me today to let me know you'd found out what I was hoping you could learn."

"I just wanted to share the good news."

"You just wanted to show off. Well, you succeeded, and now you're being treated to tea."

"If you were really impressed, you'd have met me in a pub instead of the A.B.C."

"They don't serve tea in pubs," Blake said even as she poured.

"Yes, that's one of their selling points," Brown riposted.

"Not for me, and I'm the one who's buying."

He tucked his napkin into his collar to cover his shirt-front.

"Ah, well, at least there's a sandwich," he noted. "And a free meal is a free meal."

"Milk or sugar?"

"No, thank you. I'll provide my own seasoning, thanks all the same."

Blake pushed the cup and saucer over to him, then watched as he dipped his hand into his pocket and came up with a small hip-flask. He unscrewed the top and liberally dosed the tea with a slug of Irish.

"Care for a jot?" When Blake shook her head, Brown shrugged and put the flask away. "Suit yourself. Every man to his own poison, and every woman besides. Come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen you take a drink, have I? You don't count the temperance movement among your social reforms, do you?"

"No, you needn't fear that I'll be giving you disapproving looks all through our talk."

"Well, that's good. I think you'd have a pretty grim disapproving scowl, Blakey. But you are a teetotaler yourself, aren't you?"

She nodded, causing her bow to bob.

"I am."

"Mind if I ask why?"

"No, I don't mind you asking." She waited a couple of seconds of silence, just long enough to give the impression that she wasn't going to answer, before grinning at him. "Honestly, it's because I'm terrified of the idea of losing control of my own mind. I've seen so much of that, and it's horrible. Not being able to think, emotions that you can't even be sure where they come from taking you over, everything that makes up _you_ drowned out by chemical changes in the body, I...truthfully, Brown, there's nothing that frightens me more."

He nodded slowly in understanding.

"Can't say that I don't see what you mean. There's plenty of folks who are just a shell of themselves. 'Course, a lot of 'em, it's because what scares them is life, and it's the bottle that gives them what they need to get through the day. Those girls in Whitechapel, for instance. The ones Jack ripped weren't the horrors, it's all the ones left behind. And now I'm starting to sound like a reformer myself. You're a bad influence on a man, Blake Belladonna."

She wanted to return the joke with one of her own, with a wry comment to acknowledge the shift in mood and topic, but none came to mind. The particular subject hit far too close to home, to her own fears...or maybe it was just too soon after the night of the burglary and its aftermath.

Brown, no fool, noticed her discomfiture and pushed away from the subject.

"Anyway, before I devote myself to this gourmet meal, let me get the business at hand out of the way. I found your Pandora Development. It wasn't easy, either. The address on record is just a receiving office. There's a girl there as a clerk; she takes in mail for about twenty or so holders and puts it into a drop box. Each box has a key and that way the clients can just come in and collect their mail."

"You didn't stake out the boxes and wait for someone to collect Pandora's mail, did you?"

Brown smirked.

"No, I did not, although that would have been an idea worth pursuing, but I don't like playing inquiry agent, skulking in doorways and peeping through keyholes...unless I think there's a good reason for it. Which in this case there wasn't, as an outfit as secretive as Pandora superficially appears to be isn't likely to do much of its business, if any, through the post. Therefore, they probably don't pay a lot of attention to it and even if I did get lucky and showed up on the very day, it'd likely be some kind of clerk or other flunky who might never deliver me to someone important."

"Good thinking."

"Besides, if anyone's going to skulk across the street for days on end, it ought to be the person who actually knows what the story's about and can judge if it's worth it, don't you think?" He grinned and tossed off half his cup of spiked tea.

Blake nibbled a kipper, which was more of a breakfast item than to take with tea, but she liked fish. She supposed it balanced out eating at a tea-room with someone who didn't like tea.

"You have a point there. But I have to ask, what _were_ you able to find out, if the official address proved to be a dead end?"

"A very good question, and one for which I happen to have an answer. I talked to a few of my City contacts, and I discovered that Arkwright Chemical Supply has delivered a number of orders to your friends at Pandora. I didn't learn the delivery address, as my associate works in processing orders, not shipping, but he did know that Arkwright always uses Carter Paterson for deliveries." He reached into his pocket, took out a battered notebook, and tore out a page. "These are the dates of some of the orders. If you can get someone at Carter Paterson to talk to you, you'll have what you need."

Blake tucked the page away in her reticule.

"Thank you. You can't know what this means to me."

"Now, you see, that's the depressing part. When you say things like that, I get the idea that 'and you never will' was left off the end of that sentence."

"Truthfully? It's more likely than not that you won't. But even if that's the case, I'll still owe you a favor. So if you should find yourself with a similar problem that I can help with..."

Brown rubbed the back of his head, looking a little sheepish.

"When you put it like that, it almost makes me feel like the villain for mentioning it."

Blake shook her head.

"That isn't how I meant it."

"I know. You didn't smirk the way you usually do when you're making fun of someone. I'm just saying that while I love the idea of breaking a huge story about Schnee, or at least one of the octopus's many tentacles, I wouldn't have nagged at you about it had I known it was something important to you personally."

"Well, I'll have to remember that for the next time."

"See, now, _there's_ the smirk."

~X X X~

Hissing sparks sprayed from the nozzle of a blowtorch, their brilliance making Weiss look away.

"Dr. Verhart."

There was no answer. She wasn't surprised; with the whine of the torch in his ears he probably couldn't have heard much of anything. She raised her voice and tried again.

"Dr. Verhart!"

When that, too, produced no response, she picked up a wrench off one of the tables and banged it several times against an inert hunk of metal. The dull clang wasn't exactly bell-like, but it did the job. The automatist killed the torch and straightened up as much as he could.

"Eh? What's that?"

"I need to talk to you, Doctor."

"Well! Come in, come in, do. How can I be of service?"

"It's about that mesh ribbon, the one that the thief was using with her gun. You said that it was a custom item, or something similar to that, and I wanted to make sure that I properly understood what you meant."

He waggled a finger at her.

"Are you making fun of an old man's accent, Miss Schnee?"

"No! I was just—oooh, you're joking, aren't you?" She didn't _quite_ stomp her foot in irritation when she figured it out, but it was a close thing. For his part, he just chortled.

"Yes, yes, I make, ever so small, the joke."

The irony there was that Weiss could never figure out what Dr. Verhart's accent actually was. It wasn't German; he still had it whenever they talked in that language. She supposed it was just one of the mysteries about him, like why he always appended his title to his first name instead of his family name.

Weiss sighed.

"I give up. I can't compete with a man who looks at a girl whose face is half-covered in bandages and thinks her asking about the person who made her that way is a time to start making jokes."

"But haven't you yourself been insistent on ignoring the circumstances of that injury? As for joking, at least telling you to your face I am about it, yes?"

"Wait, what did that mean?"

"You're here to ask about the metal strap. You have had a brainstorm, realized that you might track it by its maker, not just by the gunsmith who married it to the intruder's weapon, correct?"

She blinked in surprise, though she supposed on second thought it really shouldn't have surprised her at all.

"That's right. I was thinking about what you'd said before and I thought that the ribbon, strap, or whatever you want to call it, might be unique enough to trace it to a manufacturer, seller, and finally buyer."

Dr. Verhart nodded at her.

"Indeed, and this strikes you, no, as an original breakthrough? A new avenue to explore, as none has thus far mentioned it to you?"

"Well, yes, of course."

"Then would it surprise you to hear that Mr. Garnet asked me the same question on the day after the ball?"

Weiss's eyebrow shot up.

"_What?"_

"It should not be unexpected. Your father pays him a considerable salary to be good at his job. To be aware of threats, to know how enemies may prepare themselves."

"Right...I realized that, and I'm not an expert in any way. So it only makes sense that Garnet, a former army major and experienced security man would recognize not just that a weapon is weird but what parts of it use unusual technology," she thought out loud. "And did you tell him anything?"

"Yes, of course. I gave him three names who might make use of such an item."

"Did you." She did not phrase it as a question. Garnet had told her nothing of this. It was one thing if it was a lead that hadn't panned out, but quite another when it meant something.

At least he was telling her to her face, indeed.

"_Ashton_," Weiss spat out. She was sure of it.

"Eh?"

Weiss shook her head.

"Never mind. But I think it's time I had a little chat with Mr. Garnet about the chain of command. I think it's been too long since his army days; he seems to have lost track of the concept." She looked back at the engineer. "Thank you, Doctor."

He chuckled.

"I've seen my fair share of girls grow up in my time, Miss Schnee. I'm no different than any other man at recognizing when it happens, just with more experience."

"At least you _did_ notice." She turned to go, then remembered that she'd actually come down to Dr. Verhart's workroom for more than one reason, and turned back.

"Oh, I almost forgot, with all the other surprises."

"Yes, Miss?"

"Is Myrtenaster ready to be used? I have a feeling that I'm going to need it very soon."

~X X X~

Blake was familiar enough with the use of basic research tools that it took her only a few minutes with the _Star_'s collection of business directories to hunt down Arkwright Chemical Supply. She'd thought at first that it might be located in the City itself, which was London's largest industrial and manufacturing district as well as its financial heart, but that turned out not to be the case; while having a district office in London, it was actually based in Birmingham. That made her next step the branch offices of Carter Paterson at St. Pancras Station, where the goods trains from Birmingham would arrive.

The sun was starting to hang low in the sky, just peeking over the rooftops as Blake walked through the yard towards the office door. The stable doors were open; she could see a horse being led in while over in the carriage house a driver and a stable-hand were hitching a team to a wagon, ready for service. Blake watched her footing in the muck, envying her male colleagues who only had to put their boots at risk rather than a skirt-hem.

The door overlooking the yard was marked "Office—Private." That wasn't a surprise; the transport firm didn't generally wait on customers at these branch offices, but handled its correspondence through the central headquarters in the City. She supposed she could have asked there for the records, but there were two problems with that. On the one hand, the clerks were notoriously tight-lipped about their clients' business unless she could sway them either with the appearance of authority or enough coin of the realm to soothe their consciences, neither of which Blake could readily provide. On the other, she didn't just want written words on a page, but to talk with the men who'd shipped the goods, to get their impressions of the place and people there so she'd have some idea what she was getting herself into.

She rapped on the door, the ill-fixed frosted glass pane rattling.

"Who is it?" barked a thick, husky voice.

"I'd like to talk with the manager, please."

There was a heavy groan from the other side.

"Come in; it's unlocked."

Blake turned the knob and stepped inside. The office was plain and simple, with bare plank floors, a desk, a cabinet, and two rickety chairs. Sunlight fought fitfully to stream past the coal-smoke smearing the window, giving everything a washed-out look. A black-bearded man in striped shirt and check trousers rose from behind the desk at her entry; the rounded belly that strained his buttons and broken veins in his red nose spoke of too many hours at the pub.

He removed the unlit stub of a well-chewed cigar from the corner of his mouth, tossed it in a wastebin, and turned to Blake.

"I'm George Howland; what can I do for you?"

His fingers revealed the absence of a wedding ring, though that wasn't dispositive as double-ring ceremonies were still the minority. Even so, she smiled at him.

"I hope that you can help me," she said softly, putting a little purr into her voice. She took a step closer, so that there were only about six inches separating the two of them. Tobacco and smoke taunted her nose. "I work for the Arkwright Chemical Supply Company, Ltd., as the secretary to the manager for shipping and distribution. We've been having...problems...with one of our clients, so Mr. Evans sent me down from Birmingham to see what I could find."

She kept her eyes fixed full on his the entire time, to keep his thoughts mostly on _her_ and make her story only the gloss that allowed for the personal connection. Howland's canniness, though, homed in on the one point that disrupted the effect.

"Here, now! You're not saying that we mishandled your cargo?"

"Certainly not," Blake said at once. There were some times when an accusation was a good way to get information, by prompting the accused to try and shift the blame to the next person up the line, but she needed Howland as an ally. "We use Carter Paterson for all our London deliveries and have yet to have a single word of complaint from any other client. Mr. Evans finds that very suspicious, don't you agree?"

"It stands out, don't it."

"Exactly. Now, we don't know if Pandora is trying to get out of paying us because they're having financial reverses, if they want to void ongoing contracts because they think they've found someone cheaper, or if they've failed to deliver to _their_ clients and are trying to pass the blame on to is," she listed, putting more and more outrage into her voice with each suggestion, "but it isn't right at all."

"No, it ain't," Howland agreed firmly.

"So, we thought that if I could verify that the goods were delivered as ordered, it would give us a good defense against their claims."

"And your boss sent you down here just for that? A wire could have done that and been no trouble at all. Central office don't want our reputation hurt any more than you'd want yours."

Blake shook her head.

"That's true enough, but there's something that a wire can't accomplish, and needed to be done in person."

"Eh?"

"After I've checked your records against the delivery address we were given, to make certain that Mr. Evans didn't misfile the order with you—"

"You want to look at the records?"

Blake leaned in, pouting.

"You see, as his secretary, I'm the one who prepares the letters for Mr. Evans to sign, so if there's a mistake in the address, it will be assumed that _I_ made it, and I really don't want anyone saying that."

"Oh, em, no..."

"And I don't need to actually look at your records, either. If you look at them and read off the address, I can just compare it." She held up her notebook.

Howland cleared his throat.

"Well, I...I can't see how anybody'd be bothered by that, Miss."

Blake's smile back at him grew as wide and radiant as she could make it.

"Could you? That's wonderful!"

Apparently, her efforts were paying off, for Howland's face actually reddened faintly and a slightly sheepish expression came into his eyes, quite different from his earlier wariness. He actually took a half-step back from her."

"Well, as I said, I don't see as how anyone'd mind if you were just checking the address. Now, when was it that these deliveries you were asking about took place?"

Of course Blake had no idea, so she was forced to fudge the point. She doubted that Brown's contact would have remembered the name if it had been too long ago, and in any case what _she_ needed most of all was where Pandora was _now_.

"We're only interested in the deliveries from the last six months," she said, avoiding any mention of a specific date. "That's when the complaints started, while before that everything was apparently fine. As I'm sure you can guess, that's why Mr. Evans suspects that something is afoot with them."

"Yeah, that is weird. Same manufacturers, same trains, same draymen, but all of a sudden there's complaints? Sounds like they're having you on, all right." He opened the file cabinet and took out a couple of thick, paper-bound ledgers, which he set down on the desk. The central office, Blake supposed, held all the client files and orders while this branch office only kept a chronological record. When Howland opened the first ledger, she could see that was the case: they consisted of a series of entries, with columns for order number, date, shipper, recipient, and pick-up and delivery addresses, with space beneath where the cargo was described. The entries were made in a broad-nibbed pen with printing in block letters, probably Howland's own hand.

He placed one grimy thumb at the top of the "Shipper" column and ran it down the page, no doubt looking for the Arkwright name, then turning the page and repeating the process. After about four pages of this, he paused, glanced at the second ledger, and said, "I don't see as how it would hurt anything if you took a look for yourself," any consideration of confidentiality apparently allayed by Blake's feminine wiles combined with the potential amount of work.

"I'd be glad to help," she said, and came over to the desk, flipped open the second ledger, and started going through the pages. As expected, she made much faster progress than Howland did, no doubt much to the relief of both of them.

"Ah, here we are!" she said aloud as she found an entry that matched her requirements. Her heart gave a leap as she saw it written down plain as day in black and white, "Pandora Development, Ltd.," and she turned to Howland. "You don't mind if I take this down to compare, do you?"

It was a rhetorical question on her part, asked only for politeness's sake; she'd already flipped open her notebook and was scribbling down the details in shorthand. "There! Now, if I could get you to initial—oh! But I can't ask you to do that. You've been so helpful already, and I wouldn't want to ask something that would get you in trouble with your superiors. We certainly don't want Carter Paterson dragged into this." She put her notebook away before he even had a chance to respond. "But, can you tell me what this means?"

She tapped the ledger page, pointing at a note made after the summary of the delivery items (three crates of laboratory glassware), which read, "Winc., Thr. Req."

"Eh? Oh, yeah, we note which drivers make which deliveries. That way we know which ones give good service and if there are any problems."

"So, there are three names?"

"Three? Nah, we'd never send three men, just two, a driver and another workman unless it's a really big job or there's something really heavy." He looked at the entry. "Oh, yeah, now I remember. That 'Req.' isn't a name, it means request. The order from the central office said that the client wanted those two guys in particular to make the delivery."

"It did?" Blake asked. "But why?"

"They're your orders, Miss. Shouldn't you already know that?" Howland asked. Suspicion had crept into his tone, for which Blake couldn't blame him, and she hastened to repair the damage.

"No, I don't. Mr. Evans might have added it after I finished drafting the letter...but why would he? Do you think Pandora might have arranged it themselves?"

"You mean, put in a request at the central office? Don't see why not. Can't see how it'd make much difference."

Blake could think of a few scenarios as to why Pandora might do something like that, and she found herself glad that she had come here instead of Carter Paterson's central office. Pandora had probably paid someone there to add the request to the shipping orders, and that person might have warned his paymaster about Blake coming around and asking questions."

"Well, then, if Pandora had specially requested people to handle the shipments, then there couldn't possibly have been any trouble with the deliveries," she continued to follow her cover story.

"No, it doesn't sound like it." She wasn't surprised that Howland had agreed right away. After all, he'd be motivated to have the story turn out so that no blame attached to his company.

"Do you think that I could talk with them? They might be able to tell me more about what was going on, and who they dealt with when they made their deliveries. That was what I had started to say earlier, about the reason Mr. Evans sent me in person to London."

"I don't see why not. They're here now, so you wouldn't be taking them away from any actual work."

"Thank you."

She waited for Howland to put away the ledgers, then followed him out into the workyard.

"Hey! Winchester! Thrush! Get your lazy asses over here! Oh—pardon me, miss."

Blake was neither shocked nor offended by the language, but her persona would be, so she tried her best to look embarrassed.

"Yeah, boss!" a man called, and two people who'd been sitting on a hay bale next to the stable door hopped to their feet. One was a big fellow, well over six feet and muscular, with ginger hair cut short in an almost military fashion. He was respectably handsome, with square-jawed, rugged looks, but his smug smile and sauntering walk made it plain that he was far too aware of it. Blake took an almost immediate dislike to the man; arrogance was among one of her least favorite traits.

The other man seemed almost designed to be a foil for his partner: he was short, skinny, and had a long, narrow face framed by prematurely gray, ragged hair.

"Winchester, Thrush, this is Miss—"

"Farley," Blake said, plucking the first name that came to mind.

"Farley," Howland echoed. "She needs to talk to you about some deliveries you made."

The tall one's lip curled in an arrogant sneer.

"If she's saying that there was something wrong with—"

"Actually," Blake interrupted him, "it's the other way around. It's the recipient who claims there was a problem. I don't think there was any such thing."

"Well, now, that's different." The anger drained off his face, leaving only a smug self-satisfaction.

"Glad that's settled," Howland said. "I've got to get back to work. You boys give Miss Farley whatever help she needs."

"Yes, sir," the teamsters chimed. Howland straightened his bowler on his head and marched back towards the office.

"Now, Mr. Winchester," Blake began, but was cut off.

"How'd you know which one of us was me?"

"Mr. Howland always had your name first." It wasn't hard to guess which of the pair was the dominant one."

"Ha! You hear that, Russ? Miss Farley's got a sharp eye," Winchester said, elbowing his companion.

"Aw, Cardin, ease up."

"So what did you want to know?" he continued, more genial than he'd been so far. Playing to Cardin Winchester's ego had been as effective a choice as it was an obvious one.

"Well, I'm the secretary to the manager for shipping and distribution at the Arkwright Chemical Supply Company, and I'm interested in certain deliveries you made of our products to Pandora Development. Do you remember that name?"

"Pandora?" He shared a meaningful look with Thrush that was an obvious yes. "Yeah, that was us."

"Apparently they were very happy with your work, since they asked for you specifically to make their deliveries."

"Uh-huh."

"You're saying it was them, Pandora, that's having the problem?" Thrush spoke up.

Blake nodded.

"Yes, they are, which is why my company is trying to get a better picture of what happened. Can you help me?" She managed to put just a bit of plaintiveness into her voice, the "won't you big, strong men help a poor girl out" effect.

"Sure. Sure, we can help," Winchester told her.

"Eh? We can?" his friend piped up.

"Of course we can. You heard Howland. Mind you, I'm guessing you want the story in pretty clear detail, right, Miss Farley? That's the kind of dusty work that can give a man a powerful thirst."

The light seemed to dawn in Thrush's eyes.

"And I'd wager you two gentlemen just happen to know someplace nearby where you might be able to slake that thirst?" Blake asked. The smirk probably broke character, but it was impossible for her to repress.

"Why, yes, as a matter of fact we do, just a couple of minutes' walk from here."

"Then in that case I think it would be only courteous of me to offer the two of you a drink, since I am the one requesting you tackle the dry and dusty work for me."

"Thank you kindly, miss. It's just this way."

Winchester turned and headed towards the back corner of the yard. Thrush looked like a scuttling beetle in his wake as he actually took a couple of steps in the wrong direction, then hurried to catch up when he realized it. Blake followed along to a wooden gate, obviously a side entrance to the carriage-yard, which led out to an alley.

"Sorry about the grime, but taking the long way around the block would have just worked up an even more powerful thirst, or so I figured." He opened the gate for her, then let Blake and Thrush pass while he refastened it behind them.

"That's very courteous of you," Blake said, and held the hem of her skirt up from trailing on the ground. The alley took a bend to the left behind a row of brick buildings, then opened up into a kind of cul-de-sac. The rumble of trains from the nearby station echoed off the walls, and there was no sign that any of the plain back doors led to a pub or any other commercial establishment. Just as she was taking this in, Blake was shoved hard in the back and went sprawling, her foot catching in her dress while she tried to regain her balance. She rolled over, looking up at Winchester standing over her. He punched his fist into his empty hand and sneered.

"Now, Miss Farley, we're going to have that little talk about Pandora Development. Only I don't think it's going to go exactly how you planned it."

~X X X~

_A/N: Sorry about fans of Russell's mohawk, but it wasn't really apropos for the setting, so I had him grow out the rest of his hair to match. The A.B.C. is the Aerated Bread Company, perhaps the original "chain restaurant" (certainly one of them), that ran a number of tea shops. Carter Paterson is a real carrier service from the period (see, eg. _Dracula_, where the heroes were able to trace Dracula's coffin distribution through shipping records), but other companies are figments of the imagination._


End file.
